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THE CABLE 














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THE CABLE 


A Novel 


BY 

MARION AMES TAGGART, 

il 

Author of “No Handicap” 







b 

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) 


> 


New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS- 

Publishers of Benziger’s Magazine 


1923 




























Copyright 1923 , by Bekziger Brothers 


•HIL 24 1923 v 

Printed in the United States of Amcriea 

0 

©C1A711310 '' r 


Dedicated 
ex voto 
to 

THE LITTLE WHITE CHURCH 

of 

ST. MARY OF THE MOUNT 


at 

Mount Pocono 



















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CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Enter Miss Cicely Adair. 9 

II The Role of Perseus. 24 

III Miss Jeanette Lucas. 39 

IV Transplanting. 56 

V The Pinch of Necessity. 72 

VI Beginning . 88 

VII Codes. 104 

VIII Cable Strands. 121 

IX Atalanta’s Pause. 137 

X Public Franchise and Private Thral¬ 
dom . 154 

XI The Weakness of Strength. 171 

XII The Strained Cable. 188 

XIII Darkness. 204 

XIV Indecision. 221 

XV Decision. 236 

XVI Witnessing. 252 

XVII Good-bye. 268 

XVIII Orientation. 283 

XIX The New Year. 298 

XX The Old Bottle for New Wine.314 

XXI The Weaving. 329 

XXII Entangled Threads. 344 

XXIII The Next Step. 360 

XXIV The Beacon. 375 

XXV Port. 390 


7 




























I 


THE GABLE 

CHAPTER I 

ENTER MISS CICELY ADAIR 

\ GROUP of small boys stood on the corner, 
looking anxiously down the shaded street. 
They ranged from eight to twelve years in age; 
from grimy hands to universal griminess in un¬ 
cleanliness; from comfortable meagreness to 
ragged poverty in clothing, while in race they were 
polyglot, but they were identical in the impatience 
with which they scanned the sidewalk, vision - 
length, and found it empty though there were fre¬ 
quent passers-by. 

“Gee! What’s the matter wid her?” 

“Say! She wouldn’t go th’ udder way?” 

“Th’ odder way nothin’! Don’t she know we’re 
waitin’ ?” 

The tallest, but also the raggedest, boy of the 
group made a fine gesture, drawing a nickel watch 
from somewhere between his bagging shirt and 
tight trousers. “ ’Tain’t so late,” he said, display¬ 
ing the watch’s candid face. “Twenty to one by 
mine, an’ I set her by the city hall when de ball 
dropped’t noon. She ain’t so late.” 

9 


10 


THE CABLE 


“Whatjer bet she’s got, sour balls V peanuts?” 
asked the smallest boy. 

“Pennies, maybe!” hopefully suggested a young 
Israelite not without guile; he was saving up for 
an excursion. 

“Git out! She don’t hand ’em out less’n she 
didn’t have time to buy nothin’,” a boy scornfully 
rebuked him. “Didn’ she tell us she hadn’t no 
use fer money presen’s less’n she was up against 
it fer time?” 

“I bet she’s got somepin!” declared a round 
little colored boy. “We’d ought t’ be gittin’ down 
town; mos’ in gen’ly she’s here by now, an’ we’s 
gotter git our af’ernoon ’ditions.” 

“Oh, chase yourself, Coony! ’Tain’t near two. 
Dere she is!” 

The last speaker ended in a triumphant yell, 
wildly pointing down the street as he jumped up 
and down, his bare feet thudding on the pave¬ 
ment; his comrades echoed the yell with Indian 
War Dance gestures. 

The cause of this suspense and final excitement 
was a slender young figure, tall for a girl, but 
looking taller than its actual height because of its 
boyish lines, the straight short skirt and straight 
loose jacket which clad it. 

The girl wore light-weight summer tweed, sev¬ 
eral colors blended in its weave to a tone of warm 
brownish drab. Her gloveless hands were thrust 
into the jacket’s side pockets; she wore a sailor 
hat, pushed back somewhat from her brow, but 
even if it had been set on her head straight, it 


THE CABLE 


11 


would not have confined her masses of brilliant 
hair; they wreathed her face in lawless rings which 
had the effect of a halo worn in jest. 

She walked with a free, careless grace, a stride 
that was businesslike, yet springing, as of one who 
enjoyed the business which claimed her. Her face, 
which was not pretty, yet was compounded of 
many irregular charms, enhanced by a perfectly 
regular beauty of skin, was bright with smiles as 
she espied the shabby, yelling band awaiting her; 
the smile displayed an unbroken row of strong 
white teeth between full red lips. She waved her 
hand at the lads with a gesture which was like 
their own as they waved back at her, a straight- 
out motion from the brim of her hat, then flung 
widely out to the right. 

“Gosh, ain’t her hair red!” cried one of the 
boys, struck by the glow of the rings under the 
sailor hat in the sunshine. 

“Red nothin’! You shut up!” 

“Sure it’s red! What is it, then?” The ques¬ 
tion in derision, not for information. 

“It’s—it’s hair.” The defender was at a loss, 
not being accustomed to define. 

“You bet! Red hair! Awful red hair!” The 
triumphant tone was for victory, not because there 
was any desire to disparage this newsboys’ goddess. 

“Red hair yourse’f! Your mother’s red-headed!” 
This was a shot in the dark; acquaintance between 
these boys, being confined to the streets, did not 
embrace knowledge of family tints. 

“Sh’ ain’t! Black!” The wiry little Italian 


12 


THE CABLE 


struck his opponent a hard blow on the mouth 
with the back of his hand, and, with a growl like 
two puppies, they clinched. 

The approaching figure broke into a run and 
came down upon them, the hair under dispute 
glowing to the utmost justification of its accuser, 
but the girl did not come like an avenging angel; 
her smile had widened and her eyes laughed with 
her lips, though it was a strong grasp that seized a 
shoulder of each combatant and swung them apart. 

“Here, you young heathens, what’s the matter 
with you? Fend fighting!” she cried in a breezy, 
clear young voice. “Tony Caprioli, slow down! 
Mike McGinty, what’s wrong with you? Breaking 
the law! Fend fighting, you know, you scalawags!” 

“He said you’d got red hair. I said ’tain’t,” 
muttered Tony, not yet “slowed down.” 

“He hit me first. I didn’t mean nawthin’ but 
—it looked red.” Mike delicately altered the 
statement that he was about to make, implying that 
the appearance of the hair was a thing of the past. 

The girl threw back her head and the brilliant 
hair seemed to scintillate as she laughed a jolly 
laugh. 

“Tony, your name means goat—Caprioli—and 
I’m afraid you’re it! Shame, my dear, when you’re 
doing your best to bleach my hair, but Mike 
scores! My hair is red, hot red, and what’s more 
I’m not sorry it is! Shake, boys, and stop your 
scrapping! Red hair is what gives me pep, and 
pep is what makes me hustle around—when I’m 
late, too!—and buy toffy squares for the crowd! 


THE CABLE 


13 


So it’s all right, friend Tony, though I’m much 
obliged to you for standing up for me! Catch, 
fellows! I bought a box, two boxes, three squares 
apiece, and good luck to you all! Hurry up! It’s 
almost one o’clock, and I’ll have to run the rest 
of the way, or the girl I relieve will fight me/” 

The animosity in the air cleared up like magic 
under the spell of this girl’s merry laughter of 
eyes and lips. She rapidly dealt out sticky squares 
of toffy to the crowd, and boyishly, though daintily, 
licked her finger tips when the last square had 
left them. 

“Enough of that!” she cried. “Suck it; don’t 
chew it! You’ll get no more toffy till cool weather 
comes! I was a dunce to buy anything so messy. 
Balls, or peanuts, or anything neat for mine—and 
so for yours!—till September! So long, boys, 
dear; I’ve got to hustle. Hope you’ll each sell 
more than any of the rest! Every last paper you 
take out. Good-bye!” 

She waved her hand to the adoring group; each 
boy waved back again and shouted: “Good-bye!” 
in spite of the difficulty of enunciation caused by 
a large, soft toffy square in the roof of the mouth. 

The girl hurried away, not running as she had 
threatened to do, but walking so fast that running 
would have been easier. 

The group of boys melted around the corner, 
in the direction of the shortest way to the news¬ 
paper offices, and the funny little daily event was 
over for the time being. The red-haired girl had 
formed the acquaintance of this young mongrel 


i 



14 


THE CABLE 


band, and it had been her kindly whim to make 
for them a daily small joy to anticipate. She 
varied her gifts, but she never failed them; that 
they adored her and exalted her into an incarnate 
proof that human trustworthiness and kindness 
was truth, not fiction, she was keen enough to see 
was the best result of her action. 

No one but herself and the boys knew about 
“this freak philanthropy,” as she called it to her¬ 
self; it took but a few minutes of her time and 
not a great expenditure of money. “It was worth 
it,” so she told herself, “to let her red hair light 
up the poor little snipes’ noon hour.” 

The girl swung into a tall building at a tremen¬ 
dous pace, her hands out of her pockets now, her 
arms swinging to speed her action, not at all breath¬ 
less, but softly whistling: “Silver Threads among 
the Gold,” a little twist around the corners of her 
lips as she considered how distant that state of 
things was from her own radiant locks. 

She burst out of the elevator and into the great 
room of the telephone exchange almost with one 
movement, covering the intervening space between 
one and the other door on a sort of slide. 

“Well, Cis Adair! If I didn’t begin to wonder 
if you’d get here!” cried a small, extremely-orna¬ 
mented young person waspishly, as the boyish red- 
haired girl appeared, throwing off her hat and 
jacket and hanging them up rapidly, smiling her 
gay smile at the small person whom she succeeded. 

“Sure—ly, Amelia! Don’t I always get there, 
whether it’s to work or to play? I’m only five 



THE CABLE 15 

minutes late, anyway,” cried the newcomer, har¬ 
nessing her ears. 

Five minutes is five minutes when you’ve 
got to get home, eat and dress. I’ve got a date, 
I’d have you know, Miss Cicely!” retorted Amelia. 

Lucky you! Fruit market’s always closed for 
me; can’t even get a date, not ever!” sighed Cicely 
with a pensive droop of the head and an inimi¬ 
table little wink at the girl on her farther side. 
“Sorry, Amelia! I’ll come five minutes early to¬ 
morrow, so get another date ready. Might I hint 
that you’d get there sooner if you started, now I 
am here, than if you lingered to reproach me?” 

The other girls laughed, and Amelia Day 
flounced away with a toss of her head. It was 
recognized in the office that there “was no sort of 
use in trying to get ahead of Cis Adair.” Most 
of the girls liked her, a few of them were her 
devoted admirers, so it was only Amelia who ever 
really longed to damage her happy-go-lucky con¬ 
fidence in herself and in all her world. 

“Funny little old Amelia!” Cis said after Amelia 
had gone. “Seems to disagree with herself so like 
fury, and not to be able to cut herself out of her 
diet.” 

“Oh, Cis!” murmured Nan Dowling, Cis’s next 
neighbor, at whom she had winked. “You do say 
such ridiculous things, and such just-right ones! 
You ought to write. That’s Amelia all over; she 
does disagree with herself—little sour ball!” 

“Thought we agreed not to fuss about her,” 
hinted Cis. “I don’t have to, as long as my shift 


16 


THE CABLE 


follows hers; I don’t have more than a ships-that- 
pass-in-the-night, au revoir intercourse with Miss 
Day.” 

“No, but I do! I have her from nine to one, 
except during lunch, right in your place! Why 
aren’t you on all through my shift, you blessed 
old duck, Cis?” cried Nan. 

“Never could answer whys, Nan; nothing 
harder,” said Cis cheerfully. “Be glad you’ve 
got the chance to sun yourself in the light of 
my hair from one to six! And that we don’t get 
a whole lot of calls on our wires, usually, till after 
three, so we can ‘chin.’ ” 

“Amelia is raving jealous of you, Cis, and you 
know why!” said Nan. “She’d have your scalp, 
if she could get it.” 

“If she could get it she’d be welcome to it,” 
declared Cis imperturbably. “Anyone that lets a 
person get her hands on her scalp so she can lift 
it, deserves to be scalped; that’s what I say! Amelia 
can’t harm me as long as I do my work and tend 
strictly to my own affairs. If you mean that 
Amelia Day is still stewing because that puffy 
Harold Brown thought he’d enjoy thinking that 
he thought a lot of me—” Cis shrugged her shoul¬ 
ders to conclude her sentence. “Stuff!” she added. 

Nan laughed, but she looked anxious. “All the 
same, Amelia would love to get you out, Cis,” she 
said. “Of course you don’t care a rap what Harold 
Brown does—” 

“Care!” Cis interrupted her. “Ever see a chest¬ 
nut worm?” 



THE CABLE 


17 


Both girls went off into a spasm of laughter, 
subdued, not to disturb their companions. Harold 
Brown was large, plump, puffy and abnormally 
white; nothing was needed to point Cis’s rhetorical 
question. 

“Oh, Cis!” sighed Nan, as she sighed many times 
a day, in fervent, admiring delight over Cicely’s 
high spirits. “Such a Cis!” 

Nan had a call just then, but when she had 
answered it and was free again, she turned to Cis. 

“It’s not only Harold Brown, Cis; you don’t 
seem to care about any of them,” she said. 

“Meaning boys and men?” asked Cis. “Wrong 
you are, my Nanny: I love ’em all.” 

“Yes, like one of themselves!” retorted Nan. 
“But not the way they do you! You’re like a 
jolly boy yourself, friendly as anything, but you 
don’t—And there are lots of them crazy about 
you! You make them sort of crazy over you, Cis, 
with your come-on-stand-off way, and your sort of 
•—heady charm, like champagne!” 

“Oh, say!” protested Cis. “Much you know 
about champagne, kid dear! You got that out of 
a novel; own up! The price of it per bottle, and 
the Eighteenth sitting on the bottles, shows that’s 
a pure flight of fancy! Stick to facts, Anna 
Dowling! Me heady! I should say not!” 

With that Cicely had a call, followed by five 
other calls, which kept her busy plugging in and 
attending to the time for awhile. When this was 
over, a lull followed, and Cis turned again to Nan. 

“That was a coincidence, a sort of coincidental 


18 


THE CABLE 


run,” she said. “The first call was Parkway 58 
—and we know what that is, don’t we, Nanny?” 

“Of course; Miss Lucas,” said Nan promptly. 

“Neither of us ever thinks of any other Lucas 
but Miss Jeanette Lucas; we always forget 
there are other Lucases, a father, a mother, a 
younger sister, and a few boys, too young to 
matter, scattering along,” commented Cis. “But 
it was for Miss Lucas, and what is more, it was 
her betrothed calling her. I always know his voice. 
To be truthful, I don’t half like it; it’s sweet, 
cloying, yet it isn’t sweet—sounds the way maple 
syrup tastes when it’s just beginning to work. At 
our house maple syrup always seems to work be¬ 
fore it gets eaten; I don’t know how often Miss 
Spencer puts it on the table like that! It’s an 
awful sell when you pour it over cakes! Well, 
about Mr. Herbert Dale’s voice. I’m nuts on 
voices; I think they give their owners away more 
than anything else, and I don’t like that voice over 
the ’phone. Hope I’m wrong, because Miss 
Jeanette Lucas is a fine girl. I met her once, 
though she wouldn’t remember it, probably. She’s 
a gentle, sweet, ladylike, old-fashioned sort of girl, 
and I imagine she’s the kind that loves a man 
adoringly, when she gets about it.” 

“That’s the way to love the man one marries,” 
declared romantic Nan. 

“No disputing the proposition, but it’s danger¬ 
ous, because most men are quite a good deal 
human,” Cis observed dryly. 

“You needn’t talk! If you ever fall in love, 


THE CABLE 


19 


you’ll pave the path of the man with your whole 
self!” cried Nan. 

“Heavens! Not so loud, Nan! That’s nothing 
to tell a crowd! Besides I would not!” whispered 
Cicely. 

Then with a swift abandonment of her posi¬ 
tion, she said aloud, with a suppressed vehemence: 
“Well, what would be the fun of loving any other 
way?” 

“Not much fun, either, when you take it like 
a fatal disease,” said Nan. “Where was the coin¬ 
cidence in Mr. Dale’s calling up Miss Lucas, Cis?” 

“Nowhere. But the coincidence was that the 
rest of those calls I had were Miss Lucas calling 
up Oldboy’s store, and a dressmaker, and a jewel¬ 
ler, and a garage,” Cis explained. 

“She would, she does every day. Of course she 
would, now that she is getting ready to be married 
as fast as she can,” murmured Nan, disappointed 
that there was no more in Cicely’s mystery. 

“Yes, of course,” agreed Cis. “I merely said 
that she called these people as soon as her be¬ 
trothed rang off. Ever notice the way he calls? 
I’d not only know his voice over a wire in China, 
but he gives the number so peculiarly: Td like to 
get 58, the Parkway, if you please.’ ” Cis imitated 
an oily, smooth voice, unctuously used, and Nan 
laughed. 

“That’s he!” she cried. “You’re a mocking bird 
as well as a tanager, as you call yourself, Cis! 
The paper last Sunday had Miss Lucas’ picture on 
the society page, with Mr. Herbert Dale’s, and said 


20 


THE CABLE 


they’d be married on the 10th of next month, in 
our church, with a Nuptial Mass. Is Mr. Dale a 
Catholic, Cis?” 

“Not enough to notice, I think,” said Cis. “His 
people are. The Lucases are strict; I suspect that 
sweet Jeanette will make him toe the mark when 
it comes to the wedding. Probably she’s got a 
candle burning all the time before the Lourdes 
shrine, and means to make him a saint at the end 
of six months. Wish she may! I’m sure I don’t 
really know but he’s going that way on his own, 
but I honestly hate his voice!” 

“Aren’t you queer, Cis? You don’t often get 
down on anyone; you’re pretty sure to give every¬ 
one the benefit of the doubt,” cried Nan, wonder¬ 
ing. Then she hesitated, and whispered: “Did you 
go to the seven o’clock yesterday, Cis, dear?” 

Cis shook her head, her color mounting slightly. 

“I didn’t see you at the eight o’clock Mass, as 
usual,” persisted Nan timidly, for Cicely looked 
forbidding. 

“Good reason why,” said Cis shortly. “I wasn’t 
there. And I didn’t go to Late Mass, so don’t go 
on to that, Nan; I didn’t go at all.” 

“Oh, Cicely dear!” Pain crept into Nan’s words, 
though they were whispered. 

“Well! Oh, Nan dear!” Cis tried to laugh at 
her. “Yes, I know I’m bad, but I was so tired! 
I was out till after one, danced, and ate such a 
supper! I did mean to go to the eight, but I turned 
over, stretched and—” Cis made a slight gesture 


THE CABLE 


21 


that conveyed the suggestion of a passage beyond 
daily affairs. 

4 *Cis, oh, Cis! And you are so fine, so splen¬ 
did! Why don’t you make it perfect? You’re a 
Catholic,” sighed loving Nan, her gentle eyes 
clouded. 

4 Tm nothing else, at least, Nanny, but it doesn’t 
bother me a great deal, all this that has to do with 
such far-off things! I’m sorry, nice little Nan! I 
will brace up, I promise you, and go to Mass Sun¬ 
days. When I get there, it’s hot and crowded, and 
I’m just there in my body, and not my mind, 
and it’s a mighty uncomfortable body, I can 
tell you that! I wonder if it makes much 
difference whether you go or not, when you go 
like an oyster? Sorry, Nanny,” Cis said again, 
seeing how grieved Nan looked. “I didn’t have 
your training; maybe that’s it. I went to public 
school and high school, and my mother died when 
I was eight, and my father was no good, and went 
off to his own ways when I was a baby, so I’m 
kind of a hybrid Catholic-heathen! Sorry, nice 
little Nan!” 

“You’re the biggest girl I know, the truest and 
finest, and I’m sure God will pull you to Him. 
You’re too great to miss the Greatest,” said Nan, 
with such earnestness in spite of her muffled voice, 
and with such a light in her eyes, that careless 
Cicely was impressed. 

“Put your candle beside Miss Jeanette Lucas’,” 
she said, knowing that the look in Nan’s eyes fore¬ 
told prayers for her beloved Cicely’s safety. 


22 


THE CABLE 


46 You two girls have talked enough in duet for 
one day,” remonstrated another girl, a little dis¬ 
tance down the table from Cis and Nan. 4 'We like a 
whack at Cis ourselves. Nan Dowling!” 

44 Won’t get much more chance to talk, duet or 
chorus,” said Cis. 44 Half past two, and the after¬ 
noon buzz is beginning.” 

It was a particularly busy afternoon in this up¬ 
town exchange. Nan went off duty at five, but she 
waited that night to go out to supper with Cis, 
whose hours did not end till ten at night, and who 
supped in the restaurant on the top floor of the 
building, and returned to the exchange to finish 
her eight-hours’ shift. 

Cis did not know what fear was; she went about 
the quiet streets after ten o’clock at night, when she 
was returning to her boarding place, with the same 
careless assurance with which she walked the 
streets at ten o’clock in the morning. There was 
that about her carriage, her free, graceful walk, her 
faultless complexion, her glowing, abundant, strik¬ 
ing hair that made her a conspicuous figure; yet 
there was also in her entire effect that indifference 
to notice, that light-hearted frankness, that absence 
of self-consciousness, which reveals the Una-like 
girl who walks the earth fearing no man because 
she seeks no man’s admiration. 

It is the glory of our American curious com¬ 
pound, that such a maidenly girl is rarely molested 
if she keeps within decent neighborhoods at not 
too-late hours, and Cicely Adair went and came as 


THE CABLE 


23 


safely as if she were a child playing in her father’s 
garden. 

“I hate to leave you, Cis, but nothing ever does 
happen to you,” said Nan, after they had supped, 
and Cicely was preparing to return to the office and 
Nan to go home. 

“You wouldn’t be a mighty protection, small 
Nan,” laughed Cis. “Nonsense, child! I’m off by 
ten, and that’s only an hour after nine, and nine 
is curfew hour, so that’s all right! I’ll go back to 
the office and join up the rest of the world on wires, 
and go home as I always do. Don’t you know, no 
one would dare molest a red-haired girl? I fly a 
danger signal on top, and they turn out for me!” 


CHAPTER II 


THE ROLE OF PERSEUS 

/^IS resumed her place at the long table, and 
slipped what she called “her bridle” around 
her head with the cheerful philosophy customary 
to her at this end of her eight-hours’ employment. 
She had somewhere in the back of her brain a sup¬ 
pressed consciousness that there were pleasanter 
ways for attractive and lively youth to spend an 
evening, but this was “her job.” “My job” 
summed up in Cis’s mind and on her tongue a 
whole unformulated, yet distinct code of duty. 
What was one’s job must be done, that was clear 
enough, and done well, no shirking, still more, no 
neglect. If one took a job, fidelity was implied 
in its acceptance: “Take it or leave it, but if you 
take it, take it down to the ground,” Cis would 
have put it. She despised a shirker and a slacker; 
she “played the game straight,” whatever game she 
entered upon. “Her job” stood for the flag in a 
soldier’s hand, the pledge of an obligation. “If 
you take a man’s money deliver the goods,” Cis 
told another girl who was not serving well her 
employer’s interests. It was not a bad code to steer 
by, as far as it went; if it did not imply super¬ 
natural motives, it was a good foundation upon 
which to build them. 


24 


THE GABLE 


25 


The girl who had taken Nan's place while Cis 
was out, was by no means Nan; she was an un¬ 
attractive person to Cicely. Indeed, there was no 
other girl in the room for whom friendly Cis, who 
felt kindly disposed to them all, ready to oblige 
and amuse them, cared in the least. Cicely, who 
had been graduated from high school, and Nan, 
the devout little product of the parochial school, 
were better educated than any of their companions. 
Neither Cis nor Nan had time, nor desire for much 
reading; they were far from being cultivated girls, 
but they were well taught, and they found little 
to attract them in the foolish interests, badly ex¬ 
pressed, the tiresome conversation of their working 
mates. 

So when Cis resumed her place, she nodded in 
return to the nod from the bobbed hair now beside 
her; said a few words which set the girl to whom 
they were spoken, off into a giggle, and turned her 
attention to her switchboard, as a hint that business 
only was her end in view. 

In this uptown exchange early evening calls were 
many; there would not have been the opportunity 
for talk, had Cis desired it, which she and Nan 
usually found in the afternoon. Cis plugged-in 
rapidly; answered questions—rather more than 
was her office—corrected errors, untangled the 
difficulties of the old gentleman who turned in 
many calls every night and regularly called wrong 
numbers, till nine o’clock was recorded on the wall 
clock regulated by telegraph from Washington, and 
Cicely Adair drew a long breath. 



26 


THE CABLE 


“One more hour!’' she said aloud. “Went fast 
to-night!” 

“Someone meetin’ you, Cis?” asked her neighbor. 

Cicely shook her head. “I’m the cat that walks 
by herself,” she said lightly. “Not a man will 
bother with me—but, as to that, none will bother 
me going home, so it works good and bad!” 

“Yes, I guess so!” her neighbor derisively re¬ 
plied. “Pity ’bout you! Us girls are on to you. 
Miss Adair! The fellers’d tumble for you if you 
didn’t jack ’em up!” 

“Fiddlesticks! But I won’t have anyone calling 
for me; puts you under obligations,” said Cis im¬ 
patiently. 

“You said a mouthful!” the girl endorsed her, 
then added significantly: “I got one cornin’ after 
me, but I don’t get off till one, Q. T. Dang’rous 
goin’ alone at that littlest hour!” 

The girl laughed and Cis looked disgusted, draw¬ 
ing away with a slight, involuntary movement be¬ 
fore she recalled herself. Then she said: 

“One is a lot later than ten, more than the four 
hours later. Glad you’ve someone to see you safe, 
Mimi.” 

Cicely turned back to her switchboard, refusing 
to share the humor of Mimi’s being escorted home, 
and as she did so she received a call. 

“I’d like to get 12, the Boulevard, if you please,” 
a voice said. 

Cicely said sharply: “W'hat number did you 
say?” 

She recognized the voice and the peculiar form 



THE CABLE 


27 


of its call. It was the oily, yet sub-acid voice 
which Cis had said was like maple syrup beginning 
to ferment, the voice which she distrusted, the 
voice of sweet Jeanette Lucas’ betrothed, to whom 
her marriage was imminent. 

64 What number did you say?” Cicely therefore 
said sharply; could he have possibly mistaken his 
call? Parkway 58 was the Lucas call, and this. 
Boulevard 12—Why, in the name of all that was 
good and loyal was this Herbert Dale calling Boule¬ 
vard 12? 

“I’d like to get 12, the Boulevard,” repeated the 
suave voice, this time with its sub-acid quality less 
submerged. 

Cicely plugged-in for the required number, but 
her wits were working quickly, her warm heart was 
beating fast, sending the blood up to her bright 
hair with a generous, pitying indignation for the 
girl whom she admired at a distance, whom she had 
set up in a sort of shrine as the ideal maiden. 

Cicely was not in the habit of indulging curi¬ 
osity by “listening in”; indeed, she felt little curi¬ 
osity as to other people’s affairs, but now what she 
felt was not curiosity, but a burning sympathy for 
that other girl. Therefore she listened in. Only 
a few moments did she listen to the conversation 
between Herbert Dale, on one end of the wire, and 
someone at Boulevard 12 on the other. She heard 
enough to satisfy her that her favorite theory of 
voices being indicative had a solid foundation in 
fact. She jerked herself away from her eaves¬ 
dropping, let her hands fall into her lap, nervously 


28 


THE CABLE 


twisting her fingers, her head bowed as she rapidly 
examined herself as to what she meant to do about 
it. 

“For the love of Pete, Cis Adair, your face’s 
redder’n your hair; you’re all red! You listened 
in! What’s up?” cried her neighbor, putting out 
her hand to follow Cicely’s example. 

“Keep off! It’s my business!” ordered Cicely 
sharply, and the girl thought it better to abandon 
her plan, warned by the flash in Cis’s eyes. 

“Just hold your tongue, Mimi, a bit; I’ve got to 
think,” Cis added, and again Mimi obeyed her. 

“She won’t thank me,” Cis told herself. “Not 
now, anyway; may later. But it’s not a square deal 
to keep her in the dark. If she chooses to go on 
with him, it’s her business, but she ought to have 
the chance to choose; that’s it! She’s no sort of 
idea. She’s a little idiot if she marries him, know¬ 
ing he can’t be trusted when such a girl’s that has 
set the 10th for the wedding. But that’s her affair. 
I’ll not deal straight with her if I don’t let her in 
on what I know. It’ll hit her hard, poor kid, but 
it might be worse, only she won’t see that now. 
It will cost me my job. Mimi’s sure to tell Amelia; 
she’s thick with her. I’ll be giving her my scalp, 
sure and certain. Well, what of it? What’s my 
job, beside the whole life of a mighty fine girl? 
Mimi may hold her tongue—No, she won’t! Well, 
if it makes me pay, what’s that to do with the rights 
of it? I’d take it pretty cruel if another girl didn’t 
stand by me in Miss Lucas’ place. I’m going to do 
it!” 



THE CABLE 


29 


Cicely set her plug in Parkway 58; her hand 
trembled as she did so, Mimi, watching intently, 
saw it shake. She was suspicious. To let anyone 
in on a wire to listen to a conversation was to break 
one of the fundamental laws of the company. 

Mimi suspected that Cicely Adair was breaking 
that law now. 

“Is this Miss Lucas? Miss Jeanette Lucas?” Cis 
asked. “Please hold your receiver. I’m connect¬ 
ing you on a wire. It’s something you must hear. 
Go ahead.” 

Then Cis dropped her face into her hands and 
sat quite still, as if she were waiting for the stroke 
of fate. No stroke fell, however; the call for 
Boulevard 12 was rung off; Cis noted the excess 
rate, which was considerable, and notified the pub¬ 
lic station whence the call had come, of the amount 
due. She half expected to be called by Jeanette 
Lucas, impersonally, as “Central,” but no such 
call came, and when the office clock pointed to ten. 
Cicely arose, doffed her “bridle,” and turned to 
Mimi. 

“See here, Mimi,” she said, “I never did think 
there was much use in asking a girl for a solemn 
promise to keep a secret. If you tell her you don’t 
want something told she won’t tell it, if she’s white; 
if she’s any other color all the promises this side 
of Jericho won’t stop her talking. Now, of course 
you know I did something to-night that’s dead 
against the rules, but I tell you that it was the only 
decent thing to do, and whatever happened I knew 
I had to do it, and I’d do it again this minute. 


30 


THE CABLE 


because it was right. I’ve had time to think it 
over, and I’m surer every instant that I did the 
square thing. That’s all I can tell you, or any¬ 
one, because the rest is none of our business. I 
don’t want you to tell a living soul what you saw 
and heard; I ask you not to. And that’s all I 
can do about it. If you keep your tongue between 
your teeth I’ll not forget it of you, and I’ll do 
you a good turn the first chance I get. Signed: 
Cicely Adair.” 

Mimi laughed. “Sent special? All right; I got 
it. Say, Cis, Amelia ’n me ’s pals, but I’m not 
with her ’bout you. She’s jealous, that’s what’s 
eatin’ ’Melia. I ain’t; I don’t haf to be! I won’t 
tell. It’s a rich one, but I won’t tell; honest, cross 
m’ heart! The comp’ny wouldn’t do a thing to 
you if they heard it, I’ll tell the world! Don’t you 
worry, Cis; I like you; you’re a great one. I’ll 
never give you away, don’t you fret! Gee! What 
d’you s’pose ’Melia’d do to you if she had you 
down like this! She says you think you’re the cat’s 
miauw. She’d give you a miauw. I’ll say she 
would!” 

“Thanks, Mimi. It’s straight of you to keep this 
to yourself. Good night,” said Cis, and went away. 
“Little snipe! Sure she’ll tell Amelia!” she 
thought as she walked rapidly down the quiet 
street. 

The next day passed without anything unusual 
to mark it, to Cicely’s surprise. She felt that any¬ 
thing and everything were imminent, but nothing 
more exciting befell her than being one bag of 


THE CABLE 


31 


peanuts short in her noon distribution to her gamin 
friends, owing to the unforeseen appearance of 
Tony Caprioli’s little brother, who had to be com¬ 
pensated with a nickel. It was a perfectly satis¬ 
factory substitute, Cis found to her relief, mainly 
because Tony divided his peanuts with the young 
Luigi, who thus came out well ahead of the game. 

The second day, however. Cicely’s bright head 
fell under the guillotine, a martyr to a certain kind 
of nobility which makes the figure of the guillo¬ 
tine not unsuitable. 

When Cis came into the office, nearly ten min¬ 
utes ahead of her schedule, there fell upon all the 
girls that significant hush which eloquently de¬ 
clares by its silence that the newcomer has been 
the subject of conversation up to the moment when 
the door swung. Amelia’s face was red beyond 
and additionally to the paint which frankly 
adorned her cheeks and lips; she looked malevo¬ 
lent and triumphant. Nan was flushed, almost 
purpling; her eyes were nervously excited and tear¬ 
ful. All the other girls looked uncomfortable, and 
most of them looked regretful, Cis was glad to see, 
for she instantly knew what had happened. 

“I’m workin’ double shift, Cis; no need you 
settin’ down. I’m doin’ your shift till the next 
orders. You’re to go to th’ office soon’s you show 
up,” said Amelia gloatingly. 

“Well, they were slow about it!” exclaimed Cis 
swinging around. “I thought I’d hear this yes¬ 
terday.” 

“Oh, Cis, Cis, dear!” moaned Nan. 


32 


THE CABLE 


“Nobody’s to blame but yourself, Cis Adair! 
Mimi didn’t want to tell on you, but when she 
tol’ me, I said she’d ought to come out with it, not 
let nice girls that kep’ the rules get looked at 
crooked for what they wouldn’t do, not for nothin’. 
What I say is, it’s easy rule to keep; simply tend 
to your own bus’nuss. Listenin’ in ain’t what 
int’rusts me; it don’t girls that’s got gentlemen 
friends an’ ev’rything. I’ll do your work to-day, 
Cis Adair, but the comp’ny won’t let me overdo 
long, I’ll tell the world! You’re wanted in the 
office, Cis Adair, an’ it’s a cinch you’re not wanted 
elsewheres!” Amelia delivered her speech ex¬ 
plosively. 

Cis laughed lightly as she went toward the door. 

“Do you honestly think that I didn’t know pre¬ 
cisely what would happen when I—when I— 
danced, would you call it? I knew what the fiddler 
would cost,” she said. “Don’t weep for me, 
Amelia! Nancy, stay down and have supper with 
me, will you? I’ll be waiting for you in the drug 
store.” 

Nan nodded, speechless, and Cis went off, with¬ 
out outward sign of perturbation, to meet the man¬ 
ager of this office, who had always been her friend, 
as he had proved in many trifling ways. 

“Ah, Miss Adair, I’m sorry to have to see you 
to-day, and for the reason which made me summon 
you. Please be seated,” he said. “I think you 
must know that reason?” 

“Not much use in play-acting, Mr. Singer, so 


THE CABLE 


33 


I’m not going to pretend I don’t! Yes, I know,” 
said Cis. 

"‘One of our subscribers reported to us yesterday 
that a girl in our exchange had connected another 
of our subscribers with a conversation which he 
was holding. This action has, justly, too, infuri¬ 
ated the gentleman whose conversation was thus 
overheard. He has demanded that we find and 
properly punish the offending operator. Her 
action has led to the most disastrous consequences, 
in fact to great loss and grief to the gentleman—” 

“No! Has it, though?” cried Cis almost spring¬ 
ing to her feet. “Then she was game; she did 
have sense enough to throw him down!” 

“Evidently, Miss Adair, your action was in¬ 
tended to work harm to the gentleman. Do you 
know him personally, or the subscriber whom you 
connected with his wire?” 

Mr. Singer, Cis felt sure, was controlling a desire 
to laugh. 

“No, indeed, but when a nice girl is getting 
fooled—” 

“Now, Miss Adair, that will do. Let us avoid 
open allusions. Knowing you, I am inclined to 
think that you acted from a sort of mistaken 
chivalry; that you yielded to an impulse to save 
another girl from what you feared would be greater 
sorrow than you were inflicting upon her. You 
see, I give you full credit for good, even for rather 
fine motives, and I acknowledge that it is refresh¬ 
ing to find a girl with ideals such as this reveals. 


34 


THE CABLE 


But it won’t do. Miss Adair, it won’t do! The 
telephone company is not in business to guard 
morals, nor its subscribers’ welfare; it is in busi¬ 
ness to transmit messages and to see that their 
privacy is secured to their subscribers. You have 
broken one of the fundamental, inviolable rules of 
your office, and there is nothing for me to do but 
dismiss you.” Mr. Singer ended with regret in 
his voice. 

“Sure, Mr. Singer!” Cis agreed. “I knew it 
would come out, and I’d be thrown down. Sorry, 
but I’d do it right over again this minute.” 

“I quite believe that!” Mr. Singer allowed him¬ 
self a sound of laughter in his throat that did not 
pass his lips. “You have been a good operator, 
Miss Adair; quick, yet patient; faithful, punctual, 
and—until now—highly honorable. I’m exceed¬ 
ingly sorry to lose you, sorrier to dismiss you. I 
wish that you had not felt it necessary to load your 
gun and take a shot at birds, which were, after 
all, not in your field.” 

“If you had a daughter, or a sister, a nice, a 
lovely girl, all innocent and—and well, white , Mr. 
Singer, wouldn’t you give her a chance to keep out 
of a regular sell, wouldn’t you put her wise and 
let her have her chance, at least? I bet you would, 
and I did!” cried Cicely. 

Mr. Singer arose, holding out his hand in fare¬ 
well, not otherwise replying to Cicely’s question. 

“Good-bye, Miss Adair, and good luck. If I can 
be of use to you, let me know. But in your next 
position keep to your rules, and don’t let your im- 





THE CABLE 


35 


agination lead you into quixotic scrapes,” he said. 
“The cashier will give you your check. I’ll gladly 
recommend you to anyone whom you may send to 
me, but I cannot condone your disobedience here.” 

“Of course not!” Cis heartily agreed. “Thanks, 
Mr. Singer. I knew I d lose my head, so don’t 
feel sorry about it. You know red heads get 
through worse thickets than this one. You’ve been 
downright dandy to me; much obliged, honest! 
Good-bye; sorry to say it to you, but I’m glad about 
the rest of it.” 

“We had a little difficulty in identifying the 
offender, but at last we did so, through one of the 
girls whose friend had been a witness to your im¬ 
prudence,” said Mr. Singer, politely holding the 
door open for his unrepentant employee to leave 
him. 

“There weren’t many between whom to choose; 
all you had to do was to ask me; I’m on till ten 
on that section. I’d have told you I did it, if you’d 
asked me,” said Cis, halting in the doorway. 

“You certainly would have. Cicely the Sincere!” 
cried Mr. Singer, and this time he laughed aloud. 

Nan hurried from the exchange at five o’clock 
sharp, and around to the drug store where Cicely 
was awaiting her. 

“We don’t eat to-night in the Tel. Restaurant, 
Nancy Bell; we eat at Hildreth’s, one of his regular 
old ripping platter suppers: lobster; little necks 
sitting around him; broiled finan baddy, relishes 
—who minds being a Catholic on Friday when 
she’s got the price of Hildreth’s about her?” cried 


36 


THE CABLE 


Cis, seizing Nan’s hand and tucking it into her 
arm. “Drew my last check from the Tel. Co., so 
it’s on me, and a treat at Hildreth’s, just to cele¬ 
brate!” 

“Oh, Cis, Cis, what are you going to do next?” 
sighed Nan, yielding, yet disapproving this extrav¬ 
agance. 

“After the supper? I hadn’t thought. Movie? 
But we don’t care for movies!” Cis pretended 
to meditate. 

“You know I don’t mean that! What sort of 
work will you try for? Where will you go—” 

Cis interrupted her by whistling blithely, as well 
as any boy could whistle, as indifferent as a boy 
to passers-by: “Oh, boys, where do we go from 
here?” 

“Wait till after lobster. Nan, and I’ll tell you,” 
Cis then said, seeing Nan’s real distress. 

“Oh, that means something that would spoil my 
appetite!” cried prophetic Nan. 

After a delicious supper in the famous sea-food 
specialty restaurant, to which Cis did fuller justice 
than Nan, Cis lay back in her chair, her small cup 
of black coffee before her, her eyes on the con¬ 
torted shoulders of the ’cellist of the orchestra of 
four pieces which “helped float the fish,” Cis said. 

“Going to tell me?” hinted Nan. 

“I hate to. Nan, because I know you’ll hate it, 
and so do I, when I think of you. But I’m going 
to get out of here, altogether; I’m going to Beacon- 
hite to try my luck,” announced Cicely. 

“Beaconhite! Whatever /or?” gasped Nan. 


THE CABLE 


37 


“Never could tell you,” said Cis airily. “Always 
wanted to try that little city. Spells its name so 
crazy, that’s one reason; must have been Beacon 
Height once, of course. I always had an idea I’d 
like it; it’s hustling, yet settled. I’ve some money 
saved up; not much; enough to carry me on till 
I get to earning, and I’m dead sick, dead tired of 
here! Not tired of you, little Nan, but of the 
place. I think I’d better move up a square or 
two; ’tisn’t good to cork up too much fermenta¬ 
tion. Honest, Nan, it’s lucky I’ve not taken up 
that vitamine bug they’re all rushing so! If I ate 
yeast cakes, like the rest of ’em. I’d fly to pieces! 
I’m going to Beaconhite and show it what a red- 
haired girl can do to it! Nanny, don’t look so 
sorry! And don’t cry, dear! That lobster shell 
had enough salt water, and too much hot water!” 

“You’ll forget all about me, and I love you 
dearly, Cis,” faltered Nan. 

“I’m just as fond of you as you are of me, nice 
little Silly!” cried Cis. “Only I’m not keen on 
mushiness. You’ve got to allow me one virtue: I 
stick when once I’m stuck; no waving around to 
this solid body! We’ll be just as good friends, and 
we’ll get together again, here or there, but it’s the 
truth, Nan; I’ve got to break off, and break out 
new, or my red hair’ll blaze up like a fire balloon, 
and there’ll be no more of Miss Adair! I hated 
to tell you, but I’m glad it’s done! If this hadn’t 
happened in the office I’d have left next October; 
now it has happened, I’m going right off—or 


sooner. 


38 


THE CABLE 


“Right off? How soon, Cis?” faltered Nan. 

“This is Friday; don’t you think Monday is a 
good day to start a new record? First day of the 
week, first week day of the week, and washing 
day?” Cis suggested. 

“I don’t suppose any other day would be easier,” 
admitted Nan. “Will you stay with me Sunday 
night, start from my house? Oh, Cis, Cis! There 
are only two days before Monday, and I never 
dreamed, never once dreamed this morning that 
I’d ever lose you!” 

“I’m not dreaming it now, Nanny dear. We’re 
friends for keeps. You can’t lose me; I’m not that 
sort. Come along, Nan. I’m fed up on lobster, 
and I’m much more fed up on those fiddlers three 
—like Old King Cole’s. But I seem to miss a 
jolly old soul in this crowd of two!” 

Cis jumped up, paid the reckoning, and tucked 
Nan under her arm after her usual custom, her 
height and Nan’s being adapted to this arrange¬ 
ment. 

Thus they left the restaurant, Cis humming an 
old song which she had picked up from one of 
her elders: “You can’t lose me, mall Honey,” as 
appropriate to her assurance, to Nan, and as if she 
had not a care in the world. 


CHAPTER III 




MISS JEANETTE LUCAS 

OIS spent Saturday forenoon picking up her be- 
longings, packing certain things in a large old 
trunk, others of more immediate emphasis in a 
perfectly new, smaller trunk, leaving pictures and 
the few pieces of bric-a-brac which she owned, to 
be boxed. 

She was entirely cheerful over these prepara¬ 
tions, whistling softly between closed teeth, some¬ 
times breaking into a snatch of song; it was evident 
that change was by no means unwelcome to her. 

Nan Dowling, on the contrary, sat on the edge 
of the bed, avoiding physical comfort as her body 
dropped from extreme mental discomfort, watch¬ 
ing Cis with her hands clasped, hanging forward 
between her knees; her lips drawn down, her eyes 
gloomy. She had the forenoon free because she 
was going on duty at one, Cis’s old time, having 
made an exchange with another girl who gladly 
accepted the chance to have an evening off, espe¬ 
cially Saturday evening. 

“Cis, don’t take everything you own with you!” 
remonstrated Nan. “Pack a trunk to leave at my 
house.” 

“I wonder why?” said Cis absent-mindedly. 
“Believe I’ll give this blouse to the waitress. It’s 

30 


40 


THE CABLE 


a bit tight for me, though it’s still as good as ever, 
but that poor little lean thing will like something 
decent, and she’ll be able to lap it over the way 
it was meant to go; I can’t.” 

She held up a pretty linen shirt-waist, turning 
it by the shoulders, considering it in the sunshine’s 
strong light. 

64 You wonder why you should leave a trunk with 
me?” Nan persisted, ignoring Cis’s suggestion of 
the gift. “Because it looks so horridly final when 
you’ve taken everything with you; you may want 
to come home again. At least you might let me 
hope that you will, let me feel I had a link with 
you.” 

“I won’t come back next winter, Nanny; I’ll 
push on farther if Beaconhite doesn’t appreciate 
me—or I appreciate it. I don’t say I’ll never come 
back, but I know I’m going to keep away a while,” 
declared Cis. “So there’s no telling what I could 
get on without. And as to that word ‘home’ you 
used, where’s my home? In those trunks! A girl 
like me, without kith nor kin, boarding or lodging, 
hasn’t a home. Of course. I’ll always call this old 
town home, because I was born here and grew up 
here, but that’s nonsense, when you come to think 
of it. You’re the only thing here to come back 
to; I don’t need to leave a trunk to hitch me up 
to you, small Person! So your silly Cicely takes 
all she owns with her. Say, Nan, why do you 
suppose they didn’t nickname me Silly, instead of 
Cis? Comes just as straight from Cicely!” 

“Oh, dear Cis! You always make me feel as if 


THE CABLE 


41 


you were a kite and the rope was slipping through 
my fingers! You’re the friendliest thing, yet you 
don’t care one bit for people—unless it is for me?” 
sighed Nan. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye to 
Father Lennon? And—and—go to confession this 
afternoon before you start?” 

Cis shook her head hard. “Not time for con¬ 
fession for me yet; not for quite a long while. I’ll 
turn up somewhere by Easter, maybe at Christmas! 
Don’t look bothered, good little Nan! I’m going 
to be honest whatever else I am. I often wonder 
if I’m honest to go at all. You don’t think God 
can like us to pretend, do you?” Cis turned un¬ 
expectedly serious. 

“I think He likes us to hold on hard when we 
are tempted to let go, and that we can be honest 
in wanting to hold on, at least,” said Nan slowly. 
“I’m pretty sure this idea you have of being honest 
is dangerous. Isn’t it just as honest to receive the 
sacraments because you know you ought to, as be¬ 
cause you happen to feel like it? And there’s more 
merit in it, so it is sure to earn the feeling for you 
after a while?” 

Nan spoke hesitatingly; she stood in awe of Cis, 
of her cleverness, her reserves, and also her un¬ 
reserve, which was likely at any time to shock Nan. 

“Maybe, nice Nanny,” Cis assented lightly. “I’m 
so full of pep that I don’t crave anything that life 
can’t give, and I don’t think I’m a great sinner, 
honest! I’m pretty square; I tell the truth; I hate 
lowness; I don’t harm people, I even like to oil 
other people’s springs when the going’s hard. I 




42 


THE CABLE 


don’t know exactly what religion does mean to me; 
I’ve got some, at least I’d never be anything but 
Catholic, but I can’t see why I’m not living a decent 
life, better than some people’s who are at con¬ 
fession every couple of weeks or so.” 

“Of course, Cis, and you’re a peach; you know 
what I think of you, part of it, anyway. But that’s 
not all of it. I’m no good at explaining, but all 
that’s just this world,” Nan faltered; she could 
have made her meaning clearer, but she shrank 
from preaching to Cis. 

“This world it is, Nancy Bell! Where else is 
our address? I’ve heard about it; you mean what 
they say in church about ‘natural virtues.’ Well, 
I’d like to know who created nature, what’s wrong 
with natural virtue? It’s a nice, natural thing to 
be jolly, and kindly, and not jealous, or hen- 
minded—lien-minded and snake-acting! And 
you’ve got to own up that some pious people are 
just as jealous and harsh as can be, wouldn’t deal 
half as decently with other folks as Cis, the Sinner! 
So that same Cis can’t feel she’s so awfully a 
sinner! As to saying good-bye to Father Lennon, 
why on earth should I bother him and myself, 
now I’m going away, when I never saw him to 
talk to him when I was here?” Cis flicked a 
scarf into Nan’s face, adding: 

“Smile awhile, Nancy! I may be headed wrong, 
but I’m not dying, and perhaps I’ll brace up and 
turn saintly before Father Lennon—or someone 
else—comes to say good-bye to me for good and 
all!” 



THE CABLE 


43 


“You’re so big and brave and daring; you’re 
like a soldier! I can’t bear to have you miss con¬ 
nections, Cis.” Nan said softly. “Not enlist.” 

“Nice Nanny!” Cis began again, then held up 
her hand. 

“Footsteps on the stairs, strange ones! Nan, 
they’re coming this way! Think the company is 
sorry, and is sending me an appointment in the 
main office?” 

Cis opened her door to a boy who knocked, a 
messenger boy. 

“Miss Cicely Adair,” said the boy, glancing from 
one to the other girl. “Answer. I wait—R. S. 
V. P., see?” 

“I see!” cried Cis, smiling at the boy in perfect 
sympathy with his boyhood. 

“I’m the lady you seek! Sit down—but for 
goodness’ sake don’t sit on my best hat! I’ll read, 
then I’ll write—maybe!” 

She tore open the envelope addressed to her in 
an unknown, feminine hand, an unusual hand, full 
of character and refinement; she drew forth its 
contents. 

“Well, Nan!” exclaimed Cis. “It’s from Miss 
Lucas! Here, read it!” 

Then she threw on the floor a pile of articles 
which covered a straight chair’s seat, shoved back 
other things from the table end, and wrote: 

Dear Miss Lucas: —I’ll be at your house 

between three and four, as you ask. 

Yours sincerely, 

Cicely Adair. 



44 


THE CABLE 


She addressed an envelope, folded her tiny note, 
sealed it in the envelope, and handed it to the boy, 
who rose to go. 

“You’re one!” he said admiringly. “That’s the 
kind o’ letter! Don’t have to hurt your eyes over 
it! Mostly they writes tons. Had the deuce of 
a time findin’ you!” 

“Don’t blame you one bit!” said Cis cordially. 
“I have an awful time finding myself! But I 
think it pays in the end.” 

“Yeh,” the boy grinned, instantly, like all boys, 
in perfect sympathy and understanding with Cis. 
“So long. Much obliged, but it’s paid, both ways.” 

“Of course it is, but an ice cream cone does no 
harm, and that’s outside your day’s wages,” re¬ 
torted Cis, letting him out. Then she turned to 
Nan. 

“What do you suppose she wants of me? Is it 
to bless, or to curse me? I’ve got to go, couldn’t 
refuse and wouldn’t want to, but at the same time 
if you want to play my part I’ll lend you my 
clothes. Nan,” she said. 

Nan laughed; she would have tripped on Cis’s 
skirt, short though skirts were, and fallen through 
her jacket. 

“Your clothes are not a good fit for me, Cis, 
and I’d be less of a fit in your place at Miss Lucas’. 
I’ll never be able to wait to hear what happens 
there!” said Nan. 

“Pity you’re on duty all this afternoon and 
evening! But I’m going to Mass to-morrow, sure. If 


THE CABLE 


45 


you go to the eight I’ll meet you and tell you all 
I know,” Cis suggested. 

“All right; that’s fine!” Nan’s face brightened. 
“It’s time I went home to lunch, if I’m to be at 
the office by one. Remember, you’re to spend to¬ 
morrow night with me. Oh, Cis! Your last 
night!” 

“Oh, I don’t know! I look forward to many 
more nights, Nanny, and some of them with you!” 
laughed Cis, persistently cheerful. 

Cis dressed for her call on Miss Jeanette Lucas 
with more trepidation than she would have been 
willing to acknowledge. She looked exceedingly 
well in setting forth, all in white; plain-tailored 
linen skirt; fine hand-wrought shirt-waist; a simple 
white hat of soft straw, with a soft white bow on one 
side its sole trimming; her masses of glowing, shin¬ 
ing red hair emphasized by its snowy setting. 

Cis noted her effects in the mirror with approval. 

“Not so bad, Cicely, my dear,” she said aloud. 
“Neat, but not gaudy—except your hair! You’re 
not in the least a beauty, but you look kept- 
together, and I’m not ashamed to walk out with you, 
Miss Adair!” 

She nodded at her reflection in the glass, sighed 
as she took up gloves, which she detested, and ran 
downstairs, dreading her coming call, yet afraid of 
being unpunctual. 

The Lucas house stood back from the street be¬ 
hind its tall trees, screened from its surroundings, 
although its neighborhood was the best in town. 



46 


THE CABLE 


“The old Lucas place” was a landmark, built 
shortly after the building of the Republic; it had 
been finished in time to entertain Lafayette when 
he had returned to see the new order which his 
youthful love of adventure had helped to establish 
on the western continent. It had been deemed a 
pity that the old estate was exposed to the danger 
of ultimate transformation into a Roman Cath¬ 
olic institution by the conversion of its present 
owner to the Faith of France, a Faith which might 
do very well for French heroes, born to it, but 
did not do at all for unheroic Americans. 

It was an unwarranted anxiety that apprehended 
such a transformation for the stately house; besides 
Jeanette, his oldest daughter, Robert Lucas had an 
older married son, three younger boys and two 
younger girls, so that heirs were not wanting to 
save the house from a Sisterhood, nor was its neigh¬ 
borhood falling off to bring about a desire on the 
part of the Lucas family to sell it. 

Cis went up its broad front walk to its wide, 
simply beautiful front door, impressed and quieted 
by the repose, the certainty of fundamental things, 
which reached her even on the exterior of the 
house. 

A soft-footed, soft-voiced maid, with perfect 
manners, responded to Cicely’s summons. She 
said: “Please come in. Miss Adair. If you don’t 
mind, will you go right up to Miss Jeanette’s room? 
She is expecting you, and gave those orders. I will 
show you the way.” 

She led Cis up a long flight of stairs—the house 


THE CABLE 


47 


was remarkably high-ceiled—its steps low, mount¬ 
ing at the easiest possible angle, yet with a broad 
mahogany handrail to aid in progress. There was 
a deep recessed landing more than half-way up, an 
arched window lighting it, a splendid old clock 
standing back against the wall in its corner. 

The maid knocked on a door that stood slightly 
ajar at the rear of the hall on the second floor, and 
instantly pushed it open. 

“Miss Adair, Miss Jeanette. I brought her right 
up to you as you told me to,” she said. 

The maid stepped back and withdrew down the 
hall. A girl about Cicely’s age arose from a low 
couch on which she had been reclining, and said, 
speaking low, lifelessly, as if speaking were an 
effort: 

“Please come in, Miss Adair. You were kind to 
come. Will you take this chair?” 

She drew forward slightly a deep chair, softly 
cushioned in dark blue, and herself dropped back 
on the couch, sidewise among its piled pillows, not 
lying down, but resting on her elbow. Yet, listless 
though her attitude was, her left hand clutched the 
corner of a pillow, wrinkling it tautly in a nervous 
grasp. 

She was dark-eyed, dark-haired; Cis thought that 
she had never seen anyone so pale; her olive skin, 
naturally beautiful in tint and texture, was almost 
greenish in its livid tint; there were great circles 
under her eyes which looked sunken, as if they had 
been staring wide open into the dark for sleepless 
ni ghts. Cis forgot her embarrassment, her uneasi- 


48 


THE CABLE 


ness as to what might be before her because of her 
share in what had befallen this girl, in an over¬ 
whelming pity for the grief which had thus 
wrecked her loveliness. 

Miss Lucas suddenly spoke, clasping and twist¬ 
ing her fingers, her hands thrust forward on her 
knees, her eyes burning as they stared at Cis. 

“I’ve seen you before,” she said. 

“I was introduced to you at a benefit for the 
Orphans; I served cream. I didn’t expect you to 
remember me,” Cis answered. 

44 You have a face to be remembered,” Jeanette 
Lucas said. 44 We had hard work tracing you. We 

—I, rather—wanted to find the girl who-” she 

broke off; her low, husky notes gave way to a 
strident tone in her voice. She waved her hands 
as if she were throwing something away. “See 
here, Miss Adair, we’ve got to talk frankly, as one 
girl to another. There has been too much between 
us to beat about the bush, to try for foolish, futile 
disguises of speech.” 

44 I never like them,” said Cis. 

“Then—why did you do what you did? Do you 
know—have you ever known—Herbert Dale?” de¬ 
manded Jeanette, speaking with such eagerness that 
she could hardly enunciate. 

“Never. I’ve seen him,” replied Cis. 

“But you knew that night who he was; you knew 
it was something concerning me nearly, horribly, 
tragically nearly. How?” 

“He called you often; we get used to voices and 
ways on the wire, Miss Lucas. All the world knew 



THE CABLE 


49 


from the papers that you were to be married; that’s 
easy to explain,” Cis answered gently. 

44 What was your motive? Why did you connect 
me with that wire? Did you hate him, or me?” 
asked Jeanette. 

44 0h, Miss Lucas, why do you say that? Can’t 
you see why I did it?” cried Cis distressed. 4 Td 
been admiring you; you’re so pretty, so fine, so 
good, so stainless! It made me sick to think that 
you might be walking into unhappiness, blind, 
tricked. I did what I’d want done for me in your 
place; I put you where you could know, and then 
whatever you did, you’d do with your eyes open. 
I wanted you to have a square deal, dear Miss 
Lucas.” 

" 4 At first I loathed you, I would have punished 
you,” cried Jeanette. 44 But even at first I knew 
that I could not marry him. I tried to think I 
could, that Fd be a St. Monica, but no, oh, no! 
I could not see him; I could not think of him; he 
was a painted mummy case that held another body, 
not the body in which my heart was buried. It 
was not hatred, it was worse—distrust, horror! 
He was not only wicked, but he was deceiving. Oh, 
Cicely Adair, when you put me on that wire you 
killed innocent, poor young Jeanette Lucas! I 
don’t know what it has done to me; I shall go on, 
but never again the girl who answered your call 
that awful night. We don’t lightly break a promise 
to marry, we Catholics, but Father Lennon said 
that 1 could not marry a man from whom I shrank 
with horror. I am not going to marry. But I’m not 



50 


THE CABLE 


blaming you. I have been blessing you through 
long, black hours of day and night, all alike dark! 
I should have died if I had discovered that my hus¬ 
band was a liar, wicked. I thought that I should 
cure his one defect, his indifference to religion. I 
know now that he was false to all things, to me as 
well as to God! Cicely Adair, you’re a Catholic 
girl; remember this lesson when you think of mar¬ 
rying. I am grateful to you, but, oh, 1 loved him, 
I loved him, and he never lived! I can’t mourn 
the loss of the man I loved; there was no such man. 
You can put flowers on a grave. I myself am the 
only grave I have: I am dead, but the man I loved 
never lived. Oh, me, oh, me!” 

“Dear, dear Miss Lucas! Oh, I’m sorry!” cried 
Cis, beginning to tremble. 

“No! Be glad! I’m glad; indeed I am glad and 
grateful that you saved me from worse! My father 
never trusted Herbert Dale. Mother liked him, 
but father was afraid. He blesses you for what you 
did. It was fine for one girl to stand by another, 
unknown girl like that! I sent for you to tell you 
this. I hear the company found out, and dismissed 
you. There was a fearful scene when I gave back 
my ring and told Herbert that I knew him at last. 
He guessed—not at first, but after a while; I’m too 
dull to keep a secret against his experienced ques¬ 
tioning—he guessed how I found out. He swore 
he’d have the girl dismissed who had put me on his 
wire. I know that he succeeded. I am profoundly 
sorry. I owe you what cannot be repaid, but—will 
you let my father help you in some way? He told 


THE CABLE 


51 


me to say to you, when I told him that I meant to 
find you and thank you, that you would be still 
more generous and unselfish than you’ve already 
been, if you would let him help you to your feet 
again. He said he would be honored in recom¬ 
mending you to any position, a girl with such fine 
kindness and loyalty and true standards as yours 
are! Will you be frank with me, please, dear? 
I’ve spoken to you without the thinnest veil over 
my face!” 

“Bless your dear, sweet soul!” cried Cis. “I’m 
all right. I’m leaving town to-morrow, going to 
seek my fortune, if you can imagine it!” 

“Oh, no! Are you? It’s worse than I thought,” 
cried Jeanette aghast. “What a pity, what a 
shame! And all for me, to save me from being a 
wretched wife! How could you be so kind to me? 
Indeed, indeed you must let us do something about 
it!” 

“Dear girl,” said Cis, leaning forward, taking 
one of Jeanette’s burning hands in her firm, cool, 
shapely ones, “you mustn’t take that hard. I’m a 
restless fish; I’ve been wanting a change. I could 
find a job here, but I’ve been wanting to go away. 
I’m taking the chance the company’s given me to 
pull up stakes; that’s all. I’m going Monday, to 
Beaconhite, just for sport, so don’t you worry over 
it, you dear!” 

“Beaconhite? Oh, father could help you there! 
His brother is the president of the biggest bank in 
the city, and if you had a letter to him he’d give 
you something splendid, I know he would! Will 


52 


THE CABLE 


you let father give you a letter to Uncle Wilmer? 
Please, please say yes!” Jeanette pleaded with 
hands and eyes, leaning forward eagerly. 

“Sure I’ll say yes!” laughed Cis. “And then I’ll 
say thank you! It’ll be great not to be without a 
plank on a new ocean. But all I ask is that you 
and your father will quit feeling that you owe me 
anything. I knew the company would drop me, 
but that’s nothing! I tell you I’ve been fidgeting 
lately. Anyway, what’s that beside marrying the 
wrong sort? I’ve been fond of you this good while, 
Miss Jeanette Lucas; I’ve taken comfort in making 
believe I knew you, and that we were friends. 
Funny, maybe, but all girls have sort of far-off 
crushes, 1 guess! Then, when I’d a chance to be a 
friend to you in good earnest, you’d better believe 
I liked it! So that’s all there is to that, my dear!” 

Jeanette looked at Cis hard and long, then she 
leaned over to her and kissed her. “Strange,” she 
said slowly. “You have come into my life deeply 
with one stride. No other girl is bound up into 
my life as you are. As long as I live I shall remem¬ 
ber you, the girl who saved me. I shall keep your 
face, your wonderful red hair, in my mind when 
I am old and feeble—if I live to be so! It doesn’t 
seem as though I could go on living, but I know 
people can’t die because they no longer really live. 
We are friends, dear, and your sweet, queer dream 
of me came true.” 

“I’m so sorry about you, I ache,” said Cis simply. 
“What are you going to do, what will become of 
you? Don’t talk of dying!” 

i 



THE CABLE 


53 


“Father is going to take me to Europe for six 
months. That’s ail I know of a future,” said Jean¬ 
ette. “I’m stunned; it doesn’t seem true most of 
the time. Then it is the only truth in all the world, 
and I reel under the feeling that all else, all I 
trusted and believed, is false. I never knew wicked 
people, and if the one who seemed noblest, best, is 
treacherous, wicked, how do I know, how do I 
know? I’m not easy to transplant, Cicely; my roots 
won’t take hold again. - But your clear, changing, 
warm, pitying face looks true. My father and my 
mother are good, good and dear! I must find my 
way. Don’t you think I shall?” 

“Stop brooding over it,” advised Cis, out of her 
complete ignorance. “There’s not a man born 
worth worrying over. Set it down to experience, 
and quit thinking of it.” Jeanette looked at her 
wondering, then a faint smile passed over her face, 
hardly more than the shadow of one, but Cis re¬ 
joiced in it. 

“That’s good advice, dear,” she said quietly. 
“But if you have poured yourself, all of yourself, 
your life and all its parts, into one vessel and it is 
broken—how do you go on, how gather it all up, 
into what? Tell me this, brave, wise, ignorant 
Cicely Adair! Don’t love anyone, Cicely; it hurts!” 

“Well,” said Cicely, “I hope I sha’n’t. I like 
people lots, but I never wanted anyone so I lay 
awake five minutes wanting them. I must go now. 
You’ve been mighty good to me. I was afraid you 
might almost hate me. I think I could love you.” 

“You could love someone, and find it as hard as 


54 


THE CABLE 


I do; you are the sort that can love,” said Jeanette. 
“I think I’m fond of you, Cicely Adair. I’m too 
numb to feel anything but the one pain that ab¬ 
sorbs me, but I’m sure Frii fond of you. Father 
will send that letter to you to-morrow. I’m glad it’s 
to be Beaconhite, where he can introduce you, but 
I’m sorry, sorry you are suffering through me.” 

“Not a bit of it! I love to go, honest! I was 
brought up by strangers; my mother died long ago; 
I live in lodgings; what’s the difference? Good¬ 
bye, you dear, dear, lovely Miss Lucas! Go to 
sleep; you look all in. When I think I made you 
look like that-” 

Jeanette shook her head, and took both of 
Cicely’s hands. 

“It was a blessed deed, dear,” she said. “I sent 
for you to tell you I’m grateful; not to thank you, 
because I can’t. We are friends, Cicely. We can’t 
be parting for always; we have been drawn too 
close. Will you let me know what happens to 
you, if letters aren’t too burdensome to you?” 

“I’ll tell you, if you care,” said Cis. “Good¬ 
bye.” 

Jeanette followed Cis to the head of the stairs, 
and rang for the maid to show her out. Cis looked 
back, smiling up and waving her hand half way 
down. 

Jeanette leaned over the broad mahogany rail, 
her soft silken negligee drawn around her, her eyes 
burning in their pallid setting, her dark hair 
loosely shading her face, her white lips pitifully 
pulled into a smile for Cicely. 



THE CABLE 


55 


Cicely, boyish, unscathed by suffering or desire, 
yet knew that the girl, Jeanette Lucas, whom she 
had idealized, had died under that surgery by 
which she had cut off from her what would have 
slain her. 

Cis walked slowly down the street, pondering 
the mystery of this contradictory truth. 


CHAPTER IV 


TRANSPLANTING 


IS spent her last night before setting out to 



^ try her fortune, Sunday night, with Nan in 
the Dowling, pleasant, somewhat crowded little 
house. 

Mr. Lucas had sent to Cicely the letter of in¬ 
troduction to his brother in Beaconhite, promised 
her by Jeanette. Briefly, but forcibly, it expressed 
Mr. Lucas’ conviction that Cicely Adair was a per¬ 
son whose ability and fidelity were of the highest 
order; that he, therefore, felt no hesitation in 
asking his brother to place her to her advantage, in 
acknowledgment of a debt which Mr. Lucas owed 
her and which he did not hope ever fully to cancel. 

Cis read the unsealed letter with an elated sense 
of being armed to meet her new, experimental ven¬ 
ture, and hurried around the corner to the public 
telephone station to call up Miss Lucas, thank her 
and her father, and tell her that now she knew 
that she was all right, though she had never been 
fearful, and to bid Miss Lucas good-bye again, with 
the injunction not to worry over her. “Or any¬ 
thing else,” Cis added as an afterthought. 

Then she went back to her lodgings, finished 
putting into her suitcase the articles which she 
needed for that night and her first night in Beacon- 


56 


THE CABLE 


57 


bite, took a quick, humorous survey of her room, 
which embraced its every detail, and waved her 
hand to it, nodding farewell. 

“Good-bye, good luck, friend Room,” she said. 
“You’re not much of a home, but you’ve been mine 
over two years. Hope you get on well with your 
new chum, and get dusted regularly, and that she 
won’t make a fuss over that loose board, nor the 
broken blind fastening. Wonder if I’ll sleep as 
well in my new room as I’ve slept in you? One 
thing, I’ve never in my life had anything to keep 
me awake nights, so far!” 

She took up the suitcase, waiting beside her— 
it was not light, though it held no heavy articles, 
but there never was a light suitcase, however 
packed—and went down the stairs. 

Her landlady was awaiting her; she came out of 
the dining room when she heard Cis’s step, to wish 
her good luck and bid her good-bye. 

“I hope you won’t be sorry. Miss Adair,” she 
said, without any indication that she considered the 
hope well-founded. “Personally, I think no one 
could find a better place than the city we live in, 
but maybe Beaconhite ain’t so bad. You’ve been 
a good lodger; always pleasant; prompt with your 
payments; reg’lar in hours, and you never abused 
the light priv’lege with an iron, or any such. I’m 
sorry to lose you; I can truthf’ly say that much, 
and I wish you well, wherever it may be.” 

“Thanks, Miss Spencer. We’ve got on fine, take 
it as a whole, and I hope the next one in my room 
may be taken wholier—holier might easily mean 



58 


THE CABLE 


two things!” laughed Cis. “Good-bye, good luck! 
Look after the cat; I like that cat, and she’ll miss 
my petting. Animals need more than mere food. 
Good-bye!” 

“Now I’m launched!” thought Cis, going off 
down the street, having shut the front door for 
the last time with her customary vigorous slam. 
“No, I’m not! Supper at Dowlings’ and the night 
there first, then I’ll really be launched! I like Nan 
heaps, but her mother is quite advice-full!” 

Mrs. Dowling was not perfectly sure about Cis, 
as Cis was sharp enough to perceive. She did not 
like her indifferent brand of Catholicity, but aside 
from that, she found nothing to condemn in the 
girl, or had not so far. “So far” summed up Mrs. 
Dowling’s attitude toward Cicely; when Nan told 
her mother that she knew no other girl so intrins¬ 
ically upright and pure-minded, Mrs. Dowling al¬ 
ways said: “I hope she is!” and Nan was helpless 
to defend Cis against a charitable hope, however 
dubiously expressed. 

Cis was too attractive to men to be wholly trust¬ 
worthy, Mrs. Dowling felt, with the bias of the 
rather dull woman who has married the one man 
who ever noticed her. She could not understand 
the vivacity that drew others, combined with the 
nature that allowed no one to pass within definite 
barriers. 

Then young Tom Dowling, only a year and a 
half Cicely’s junior, found her far too charming; 
it was bad enough that Nan was her humble adorer, 
but Tom was another matter. Mrs. Dowling was 


THE CABLE 


59 


one of the many women who mistake jealousy for 
love of their children. Down in the bottom of her 
heart, Mrs. Dowling felt sure that the act of Provi¬ 
dence which removed Cicely Adair from her pres¬ 
ent field was easily understood, corroborative of 
her secret misgivings. 

Nan and Cicely were bedfellows that last night; 
like true girls they talked far into it of their views, 
their hopes, Cicely’s adventure, of Jeanette Lucas 
and the risks and promises of marriage. 

Cis declared that she did not want to marry, nor 
ever would marry unless there came into her life 
a man who so filled it that she would be maimed 
and crippled, lacking him. That man, she added, 
she did not believe existed. Cis felt self-sufficient, 
rejoicing in her ability to take care of herself. 

Nan, on the other hand, did not mind acknowl¬ 
edging that she thought that she could be quite fond 
enough of a man to marry him and be happy with 
him without a cataclysmic passion; he must be 
good, she added, like a wise little second Eve, be¬ 
cause, chiefly, she hoped that she would have many 
children and she would want their father to be an 
example to them. 

Cis laughed aloud at this, and Nan smothered 
the laugh in the bedclothes, fearing to disturb her 
mother at one o’clock. 

“I don’t believe many girls pick out a man for 
the sake of their children; I’m dead sure I’d pick 
him for myself,” declared Cis. 

“I don’t care; they ought to,” maintained Nan 
stoutly. “How can you bring up children well if 


60 


THE CABLE 


their father is bad? And if he’s a good father, 
he’ll make his wife happy. All women are first 
of all mothers of souls, like the first woman.” 

She admitted to Cicely’s gleeful questioning that 
she had derived this idea from a mission sermon; 
in return for which admission Cicely admitted that 
she had no doubt it was quite right; that she 
couldn’t object to it as long as she herself didn’t 
have to marry posterity’s ancestor. 

Breakfast was somewhat hurried. Beaconhite 
was distant over a hundred miles, but its in¬ 
accessibility counted for more hours’ travelling 
than the miles. To reach it Cis must go to New 
York; cross there to another railway station, and 
start again for her destination, therefore she was 
to take an early train to New York. 

Tom and Nan were going to see her off. Mrs. 
Dowling put up a delicious lunch for Cis, and 
gave it to her with the utmost kindness, and much 
excellent advice as to conditions and conduct of 
which young Cicely, accustomed to the world and 
to make her way in it from her childhood, knew 
ten times as much as the older woman, and had 
practically and instinctively formulated her own 
rules. 

“And, my dear,” Mrs. Dowling ended, “I wish 
you’d at once go and call on some fine priest, get 
him interested in you. You’re a girl that needs 
it, though all do who are alone like you. And 
where’ll you stay to-night, till you find a nice room, 
in a decent house? And how’ll you know what 
any house’s like in a new place, unless you call 


THE CABLE 


61 


on the priest and he sends you to the right one? 
You can’t be too careful, Cicely; you heed what 
one who is old enough to be your mother tells 

VV 

you. 

“I wouldn’t know what to say to the priest if 
I called on him, Mrs. Dowling,” laughed Cis. M I’ll 
stay at a hotel, pick out a good one. I’ve made up 
my mind to take a week off, not present my letter 
to that other Mr. Lucas for a bit. I’ll get a hotel 
for five dollars a day, I’m sure, and I’ve decided 
to spend thirty-five dollars on myself laying off, 
sizing up Beaconhite for a week. Then I’ll roll 
up my sleeves and pitch in. I may get acquainted 
with some decent young fellow of my own age. 
You take a risk when you pick up a girl, but with 
a boy you don’t. Then a boy never misunderstands 
you; you can be honest and friendly with a boy, 
and he’ll always see it if you’re straight, and play 
right up to you, good chum-fashion, not looking for 
trouble, nor for anything behind your jolly good 
times. I’ll try to find a nice boy, first, in Beacon¬ 
hite and he can steer me to his sister, or his cousins, 
and other girls. Isn’t that all so, Tom?” 

“Right you are, Cis!” cried Tom. “Fellows 
know what girls mean—worse luck! It wouldn’t 
be half bad if a chap couldn’t always dope you out 
so easy.” 

“Cicely Adair, I wish you had a mother!” cried 
Mrs. Dowling. 

“Don’t you suppose I do?” Cis exclaimed. “The 
right sort; but we always think our mother would 
have been the right sort, if we’d had her, of course! 



62 


THE GABLE 


You’ve been kind, Mrs. Dowling; indeed I thank 
you for it. Don! worry about me. I don’t be¬ 
lieve I’ll take a plunge; I sort of believe in my 
luck. I’m going to keep in mind that I’ve got to 
be the old maid godmother to Nan’s children, and 
that she’ll expect a perfect lady for the part! 
Isn’t it time we were getting off, children? If you 
make me lose that train you can stop down in town 
and order crepe for your mother to put on!” 

“Loads of time, Cis,” said Tom. “However, we 
may as well mosey along. No use putting off ampu¬ 
tation; hurts any time.” 

He picked up Cicely’s suitcase, went outside, 
pulling his hat down over his eyes, to wait with a 
gloomy face while Cis bade good-bye to his mother 
and the rest of his family. 

“Rotten! No sense in her going!” muttered Tom 
under his breath. 

At the station there were many others waiting 
to see Cicely Adair on her way. 

Young Tom had no chance for a tender leave- 
taking, for which Cis was devoutly grateful. Now 
that the time to go had come, Cis found herself 
moved by the parting. After all, one’s native place 
and lifelong acquaintances mean a great deal, even 
to self-confident youth. 

Cis wrapped little Nan in a close embrace and 
her bright eyes were dimmed by the tears which 
did not fall; Cis was not a crying girl. Nan wept 
aloud, in spite of Cis’s promise to return. 

“You’ll never come back, not the same, anyway. 


THE CABLE 


63 


We’re too young to part and join on again without 
changes,” sobbed Nan, unexpectedly far-seeing. 

Cis settled into her seat next the window with 
a long breath of relief; she disliked feeling emo¬ 
tionally upset, it puzzled her and offended her 
with herself; she was unaccustomed to distress of 
mind. 

She took off her small close hat, rumpled her 
bright locks which it had flattened, and leaned her 
head against the window to watch obliquely as long 
as she could see them, those whom she was leaving. 
Then, when the last handkerchief and waving straw 
hat had been lost to view, Cis burrowed in her 
hand-bag for a tiny powder box and puff, held 
up a small mirror and dusted her eyelids and the 
tip of her nose, restored the vanity articles to their 
place, pulled a magazine from the straps of 
the suitcase at her feet, selected the box of candy 
of the five beside her which promised her keenest 
pleasure, and settled herself for the journey to 
New York. If there were no use in crying over 
spilled milk, neither was there any use in spilling 
tears over partings which she herself had chosen 
should occur. 

It was half after four that afternoon when Cis 
found herself being pulled slowly into the station 
of the city which she had selected as the scene of 
her winter residence, chiefly on the whimsical 
ground that it spelled its name Beaconhite when 
it obviously should have been Beaconheight. 

There was a better approach to this small city 


64 


THE CABLE 


of some hundred thousand inhabitants than is 
commonly found along railway tracks, and the 
station, with its roofed-over platforms covering out¬ 
lying tracks, and flower beds along its banks at 
either end, was attractive. 

“You look quite spiffy, Beaconhite, my dear, but 
handsome is as handsome does; we’ll wait to find 
out what you do to me!” thought Cis, playing with 
herself after her usual fashion. 

Cis “grabbed a "bus in the dark,” as she told her¬ 
self, one of three which bore the names of 
hotels, this one being "The Beacon Head,” 
which hit Cis’s fancy: it chanced to he the best 
hotel in town; not the most pretentious, but the 
most dignified and well-conducted. 

“Luck’s holding!” thought Cis, having registered 
and been assigned a room at her limit of price, and 
finding the room comfortable, well-furnished, its 
two windows giving, one on an enclosed court, but 
the other on the main street. 

Cis went to bed early, after a remarkably well- 
cooked, nicely served dinner. She debated going 
out in search of amusement, but decided for early 
sleep and a long night. 

“If you’re going to spend a week loafing, my 
girl, you’ll have a hard enough job putting in the 
time, and when you’ve got to work at enjoying 
yourself, don’t make the job harder by plunging 
the first night, using up scanty materials for fun,” 
she advised herself, taking the lift to her room on 
the second floor merely for the luxury of it, though 
she preferred walking up stairs. 


THE CABLE 


65 


Cis awoke early, thoroughly refreshed, but she 
carried out her principle of compelling herself to 
be luxurious by not rising till after eight. Then, 
bath and breakfast over, she sallied out to see the 
city. 

Cis found Beaconhite greatly to her liking; she 
came back to the Beacon Head with a good appe¬ 
tite, and the conviction that here she should like to 
stay. She would not defer presenting her letter 
of introduction till the end of the week; she would 
present it to Mr. Wilmer Lucas the day after to¬ 
morrow. It was not likely that she would at once 
step into employment; she must allow time for a 
position to be found for her, so she would be pru¬ 
dent, and use her introduction sooner than she had 
intended doing. In reality, one forenoon of lux¬ 
urious idleness had shown active Cis that many 
days so spent would undermine her spirits and her 
patience. 

On the third day after her arrival in Beacon¬ 
hite, Cis made herself trig and trim in the well- 
cut suit which she was wearing that summer, with 
a fine fresh shirt-waist, and her simple white hat. 
She had dressed carefully and looked her best; she 
sallied forth to call on Mr. Wilmer Lucas less hope¬ 
ful than confident. 

She found the bank of which Mr. Lucas was 
president, to which Jeanette Lucas had directed her 
to find her uncle, a really impressively magnificent 
building, its furnishings and finish declaring its 
assets; its architecture and material announcing its 
security. Mr. Lucas, she was told, did not come 


66 


THE CABLE 


to the bank every day; this was one of the morn¬ 
ings on which he was to be found in his law office. 
It was not far from the bank; Cis turned her steps 
thither, and was shown into Mr. Lucas’ private 
office after a sufficient time had elapsed for him 
to read the introductory letter from his brother, 
which Cis sent in to him by the messenger who 
came forward to her in the outer office. 

“Miss Adair?” said Mr. Lucas as Cis entered. 
“My brother has spoken of you in the highest 
terms, as you probably know. Will you be seated, 
if you please?” 

Cis took the straight chair before the desk, so 
placed as to give Mr. Lucas the advantage of the 
light from the window above it, full on her face. 
He looked at her keenly, and what he saw seemed 
to satisfy him, for he nodded almost imperceptibly, 
with a softening of his glance that betokened ac¬ 
ceptance of Cis. Cis’s bright, irregular face, with 
its straightforward look of humorous kindliness 
invariably won for her friends, and, from elder, 
experienced people, appraisal and trust. 

Cis on her part saw a man older than the Mr. 
Lucas whom she had often seen at her home; a 
large man, greyed around the temples, with a face 
that was harder than his brother’s face; an in¬ 
tellectual face that might reveal selfishness, but did 
not indicate self-indulgence. Cis felt a little afraid 
of him, yet to herself she characterized him as “the 
real thing,” and decided that it would be agree¬ 
able to be in the employ of such a fine gentleman. 


THE CABLE 


67 


“My brother tells me that you would like a po¬ 
sition, Miss Adair, or implies that. What can you 
do?” Mr. Lucas asked. 

“I write a clear hand, that can be read; I am 
quick at figures; I know shorthand and can type. 
I can do as I’m told,” Cis added the final state¬ 
ment with a twist of her lips, a sudden, crooked 
little smile that revealed her strong white teeth. 

“Great virtue, that last,” commented Mr. Lucas, 
his eyes reflecting Cis’s smile. 

“My brother speaks of his obligation to you; 
may I ask in what way you have put my brother 
under obligations to you?” 

Cis shook her head. “Sorry, Mr. Lucas, but that 
can’t come into my dealing with you, if I’m lucky 
enough to deal with you. It wasn’t such a great 
obligation; it wasn’t doing anything worth talking 
about, but you’ll see that I can’t talk about other 
people’s affairs, even your brother’s, or—” Cis 
caught herself up short. 

“ 4 0r’? Well, Miss Adair, I suppose that you 
are within your rights in refusing to answer me, 
but you will see that I, also, have rights; that I 
should know all about a person whom I employ?” 
said Mr. Lucas. 

“It’s not so much within my rights, Mr. Lucas, 
as within my duty,” said Cis, with her sunny smile 
of good fellowship, as if she expected Mr. Lucas 
to understand and sympathize with her. “I’ll tell 
you anything under the sun that you want to know 
about myself.” 


68 


THE CABLE 


“Why have you left your home? Why were you 
not able to find employment there?” asked Mr. 
Lucas, his voice intentionally made harsher. 

“I left my home for no reason at all, just be¬ 
cause I wanted to shake myself. I think I could 
have found employment there; I didn’t try. I 
wanted a change,” said Cis promptly. “But I’m 
going to tell you that I was employed in the Tel¬ 
ephone Exchange and was dismissed for breaking 
an important rule. So now you know the worst 
they’d tell you of me at home.” 

“Broke an important rule? Yet you this mo¬ 
ment told me you could obey. Did you break it 
deliberately?” demanded Mr. Lucas. 

“Yes, Mr. Lucas, and I knew they’d bounce— 
dismiss me. Please don’t ask anything more about 
it, because the rest of it doesn’t concern me; it 
concerns someone else.” Cis looked at Mr. Lucas 
appealingly, yet with a frank certainty that he 
would trust her. 

“H’m,” Mr. Lucas murmured. “I am a lawyer. 
Miss Adair; my specialty is collecting and weigh¬ 
ing evidence for my firm. Let me see: You were 
a telephone girl; you broke an important rule; you 
were dismissed, as you foresaw that you would be 
for that disobedience; my brother feels profoundly 
indebted to you; his daughter, Jeanette, is the very 
core of his heart; she was to have been married 
shortly; she is not to be married, I hear; she dis¬ 
covered that her lover was perfidious, unworthy; 
how did she discover it? Heh?” He bent his keen 
eyes, frowningly upon Cis. 


THE CABLE 


69 


“The newspapers said that the marriage was off; 
they didn’t tell us anything else about it,” said 
Cis, but she turned crimson and looked alarmed. 

“Did you ever see my niece, Jeanette Lucas?” 
persisted Mr. Lucas, and as Cis nodded, he added: 
’"Lovely girl, lovely in mind as well as body!” 

“I saw her at a bazaar, spoke to her, and I’ve 
loved her ever since; she’s the loveliest thing!” 
cried Cis fervently, then stopped, confused as she 
saw Jeanette’s uncle smile. 

“Very well. Miss Adair,” he said, pushing over 
some papers on his table and leaning back in his 
chair as if to indicate the end of the interview. 
“I will see about your application. I suppose you 
are applying for a position with me? I may tell 
you that I need someone who can be trusted, rather 
unusually trusted, with matters which must be 
absolutely and completely buried within these 
walls. I need a confidential clerk who will take 
down notes for me, write letters, and whose honor 
must be beyond suspicion, beyond the reach of 
temptation by bribery or cajoling, whose discretion 
must be equal to her—or his—honor. I may say 
that I am inclined to forecast the use of the femi¬ 
nine pronoun; it has been my experience that 
women are loyal to the death, if they are capable 
of loyalty at all, and that, when they are to be 
trusted, there is less danger of advantageous offers 
to betray winning them over, than there is of men’s 
being so led away. If I took you on could you 
begin next Monday?” 

“That would just suit me. I thought I’d like 



70 


THE CABLE 


a week off before I took up anything, though it’s 
going to be long enough, too!” Cis laughed at 
herself. 

“Habits are our masters, Miss Adair; work gets 
its iron hold on us quite as tight as any other 
vice,” observed Mr. Lucas. “Learn to loaf while 
you’re still young.” 

To his satisfaction Cis laughed up at him—they 
had both risen—her eyes spilling over fun, her 
lips parted, a hitherto unrevealed dimple appear¬ 
ing in one cheek. 

His solemn warning was not mistaken by her for 
serious earnest. 

“I think she will do; I think Robert has esti¬ 
mated her justly. She would not tell me anything 
that might betray confidence, or her inside knowl¬ 
edge of the other Lucas family’s affairs. I need 
a girl who can hold her tongue, and be loyal. 
Somehow, she is the source of Jeanette’s discovery 
of her lover’s perfidy. I think she’ll do exceed¬ 
ingly well.” 

These thoughts ran through Mr. Lucas’ mind as 
he politely bowed Cis out of his office, but all that 
he said to her was: 

“You shall hear from me not later than Sat¬ 
urday. At the Beacon Head? I see you wrote that 
address on the envelope which you sent in to me. 
Good morning, Miss Adair. Not later than Satur¬ 
day; sooner, I think. Good morning.” 

“Luck still running strong, Cis dear!” Cis gaily 
told herself as she walked fast away from the office. 
“He’s going to take you on. He’s like a duke and 



THE CABLE 


71 


the Tower of London, combined with a magnifying 
glass which shows how you’re working inside, but 
I think I’ll like the combination, especially the 
duke part of it! I must go back and write Nan 
all about it; she’ll be worrying over lucky me, 
little goose!” 


CHAPTER V 


THE PINCH OF NECESSITY 

DY FRIDAY of the week of her arrival in 
Beaconhite, Cis found herself a burden on 
her own hands. Five days of what had become 
compulsory idleness and pursuit of pleasure, were 
too many for the nerves of active Cis Adair, trained 
by her lifelong habit into ways of industry. 

Beaconhite did not offer enthralling pleasure to 
dwellers on its surface. There were theatres, one 
principal one, two insignificant ones, a vaudeville 
house, but even to the best of these, first-class 
companies did not come; this week the third-class 
company which was giving a metropolitan success 
for six nights and a matinee in Beaconhite, had 
already been seen by Cis when they were doing 
the same thing in her native city. There were 
“movies,” but Cis happened to be one of those 
persons to whom silent drama is annoying; she 
wanted the spoken line, and disliked the necessary 
exaggeration of the pictures. She went one night 
to see again the play which she had already seen, 
and another night to the moving pictures; here she 
found a film showing, which she had seen twice 
before, and this, added to her dislike for this form 
of entertainment, sent her back to her hotel in a 
bad temper. 


72 


THE CABLE 


73 


She had hoped to hear from Mr. Wilmer Lucas 
by this time, founding the hope upon his sugges¬ 
tion that he might communicate with her before 
Saturday, but no word came from him. 

‘‘Looking up my record at home, maybe, though 
Mr. Robert Lucas’ letter ought to be enough for 
him,” thought Cis. “Goodness, if he shouldn’t 
take me at all! I’ll be dippy if I hang around 
after Monday; all I can do to hold out till then! 
If I don’t get into Mr. Lucas’ office. I’ll have to 
take a job at anything, good or bad; I’ll kick the 
stall out if I’m left standing any longer. Besides, 
I can’t stay on at $5.00 per, at the Beacon Head 
longer than that; $35.00 is my limit to spend on 
loafing—and I haven’t had my money’s worth so 
far!” 

Cis realized, as she had not done, how much she 
had depended upon companionship. She had 
earned her living among girls, some of whom she 
had liked, some disliked, to the great majority of 
whom she had been indifferent; but they were 
quick-witted, full of life and spirits; “they kept 
things moving,” Cis told herself, and the days 
spent without anyone to speak to except a hotel 
clerk, a chambermaid, waiter and bell boy, grew 
oppressive. 

Cis tried to talk to some of the attractive girls 
who were always to be met in the lobby, the ele¬ 
vator, in the dining room, but all of them froze 
up when she made advances to them; all but one 
replied to her small talk, but replied so forbid¬ 
dingly that Cis did not persist. 


74 


THE CABLE 


‘‘Afraid I may be the wrong sort and that it’ll 
come off!” thought Cis. “Idiots! How do you 
ever get anywhere in this world if you tote a shell 
around, like a snail? Miss a lot if you don’t try 
people out first, and freeze up afterward, provided 
you find them the kind that needs dropping! I 
wanted to jar poor Mrs. Dowling when I said 
what I did about picking up boy acquaintances, 
but it’s the truth, nevertheless. I’m going to 
look around for a nice fellow and try him out, 
see if he won’t be bold enough to risk a decent 
answer. I’ve got to get someone started, that’s 
sure! This hotel and town are getting to feel like 
a diving bell, ’way down below human noises.” 

With deliberate intention to carry out her plan, 
purvey to her need, Cis scanned the male portion 
of her fellow guests in the hotel for the rest of 
that day and evening, but none measured up to 
her requirement. They were a lot of average 
young Americans, but the frank face, the business¬ 
like air, the quality of manliness that conveyed 
the ability to understand and meet her like a 
fellow-being, not like a girl seeking attentions, 
seemed to Cis wanting to them all. 

She went to bed lonely and discouraged, some¬ 
what inclined to tears, but so healthy-minded that 
she quickly fell asleep instead of crying. Her last 
waking thought was that if Beaconhite showed her 
no jolly, sensible girls, no friendly, chummy boys, 
it was no place for Cis Adair, and that she might 
move on by Monday, Mr. Lucas or no Mr. Lucas. 

Friday morning found Cis refreshed and ready 


THE CABLE 


75 


to postpone her decision to move on, also quite 
sure that before the day was over she should hear 
from Mr. Lucas that he was ready to test her in 
the highly honorable position of his confidential 
clerk. Therefore her merry face was as bright as 
ever when she had finished her toilette and came 
down to breakfast like a sun maiden, all in white, 
her red hair gloriously shining above her snowy 
raiment. 

Two young men breakfasting together looked 
smilingly up at Cis as she passed their table, un¬ 
mistakably ready to leap out into acquaintances at 
the least sign of welcome from her; indeed one 
of them slightly pushed out the chair next to him, 
leaning forward with an ingratiating smile. Cis 
knew the type and “had no time for it,” she would 
have said. “Call themselves men!” Cis once had 
exclaimed to Nan. 

After her solitary breakfast, which she enjoyed 
as a hungry girl should, Cis turned her mind upon 
the problem of how to dispose of that day; she 
found it insoluble. “May as well take a trolley 
and ride till it stops, but of all stupid things, 
sliding along past a lot of houses is the worst! 
Wish I had my bunch of little newsys here! Won¬ 
der if they miss me badly, poor little scraps! I 
made Tom Dowling promise he’d do something 
for them.” 

Cis left the dining room and went to the desk. 
Here she found two letters in the pigeonhole that 
bore the number of her room, but neither was 
from Mr. Lucas, as she had been sure one must 


76 


THE CABLE 


be. There was a brief note from Jeanette Lucas 
in reply to one which Cis had written her, telling 
her that she had seen her uncle and that he held 
out hope of a position for her. Miss Lucas said 
nothing of herself beyond that she was to sail for 
Europe the following week. She wrote to Cis with 
much more than the politeness of a slight acquain¬ 
tance; the short note breathed warmth of feeling 
for Cis, and a personal sadness that depressed Cis, 
though she could not have said wherein it lay. 

The other letter was a long one from Nan, full 
of love and longing for Cis, and all the trivial 
news of the office, her home, their common ac¬ 
quaintances, which are such important items to an 
exile, just because they are so homely and unim¬ 
portant. Cis folded this letter and slipped it into 
her pocket with homesick heaviness of heart that 
surprised her. “Of course there’s nothing to pre¬ 
vent me from going back if I want to,” she re¬ 
minded herself. 

Deciding against the trolley trip, Cis arose from 
the leather seat upon which she had been sitting, 
and began to stroll up and down the lobby, and 
down its adjacent corridors, returning on her beat. 
One of the corridors had shop-like rooms up and 
down its length, rented for various sorts of busi¬ 
ness—a little toy shop, candy shop, book shop, 
flower shop, a shop for fancy work materials, all 
sorts of attractive things offered for sale; while 
a manicure, a chiropodist, a barber and a bootblack 
were lodged there, in their respective rooms, to 


THE CABLE 


77 


minister to the personal comfort of the patrons of 
the hotel, and people from beyond its walls. 

The bootblack’s establishment especially at¬ 
tracted Cis’s eye; it was the apotheosis of the ele¬ 
vated chair and foot rest and the active little Italian 
ministrant, to be found on street corners. Here 
were several chairs, better said, thrones; the walls 
were panelled in attractive colors; there were 
hangings of deep yellow, framing the casement of 
the door and one window at the rear; a table, with 
papers and magazines upon it, in its centre a well¬ 
shaped vase holding two perfect yellow roses. 

Cis looked into this palace of charity to wayworn 
shoes, admiring its perfection. There were two 
or three assistants at work on as many customers, 
and there were two other customers waiting to 
have their shoes polished. In a chair unmistak¬ 
ably comfortable sat one of these waiting cus¬ 
tomers ; he was reading a magazine. As Cis loitered, 
looking in at the open door from the hotel cor¬ 
ridor, this customer turned over his magazine, 
which he held doubled over for convenience in 
reading it, and his eyes met Cis’s eyes. 

He was exceedingly good looking, dark haired, 
blue eyed, fresh tinted, with well-cut features, but 
it was not for his good looks that Cis instantly 
decided that here was the person for whom she 
had been seeking. It was rather for an indes¬ 
cribable air of man of the world about him; the 
ease of his excellent clothes and their manner of 
wearing; his steady, unembarrassed gaze, that did 


78 


THE CABLE 


not intrude upon her, yet seemed to take Cis in 
as to her every detail, to approve her and like her, 
be ready to meet her friendliness on its own 
ground; “be a human being,” Cis would have 
summed it up. But there was no denying that this 
young man possessed decided good looks and in¬ 
stant charm which were not a necessary part of 
the qualifications upon which Cis had insisted as 
a part of the outfit of the person whom she should 
adopt as the one who should make her wilderness 
blossom with comradery. 

Cis Adair had never hesitated to take anything 
that she wanted, nor, if it did not come after her, 
to go out after it. She had never wanted any¬ 
thing that was forbidden by the highest, nor the 
lower laws, but she invariably reached out after 
what she wanted. Now she glanced down at her 
shoes, which were shapely, fine as to leather, and 
which she decided were enough in need of polish¬ 
ing to warrant her treating them to it. She entered 
the attractive shop. 

The customers happened at that moment to be 
all men, but Cis had no shyness with men; she 
was nearer to shy with women. She came in with¬ 
out embarrassment, though every eye turned on 
her. The young man who had innocently trolled 
her hither at once got upon his feet; the other wait¬ 
ing customer did not move. 

“This is the most comfortable chair,” he said, 
indicating the one which he had just vacated for 
Cis. “Please take it; I’ll sit here.” He dropped 


THE CABLE 


79 


into the chair next beyond his former one, which 
Cis took with a hearty “Thank you,” and a bright 
smile. His voice was quite beautiful, soft, rich, 
mellow, caressing, like a musical cadence, as he 
spoke these few words. 

“I never saw a bootblacking place like this,” Cis 
commented. 

“No. There can’t be many as nice. There’s 
one in Chicago that—well, we won’t say it is bet¬ 
ter, because we ought to be loyal to our own city, 
but it’s by way of peachiness,” said the young man, 
and his smile was as gay and bright as Cis’s own, 
and it revealed two dimples to her one. 

“I don’t have to be loyal to Beaconhite,” said 
Cis. “I’m a stranger, staying in this hotel, but I 
don’t mind sticking up for its bootblack.” 

“I fancy you’d be good at sticking up for any¬ 
thing that you felt belonged to you,” said the 
young man, and Cis suddenly perceived that he 
was not as young a man as she had at first thought 
him. His brilliant coloring, his grace and charm 
gave him the effect of greater youth than was his. 
Cis decided that he was well on in his twenties, 
if not just beyond them, and this somewhat checked 
her readiness to take him on in the capacity of good 
fellowship. Yet this was silly, she told herself; 
a good fellow was one at any age. What did it 
matter if this one were anywhere from five to ten 
years her senior? 

“You aren’t a Beaconhitette then?” he went on. 
“That’s hard luck. Now I am. I wasn’t always; 



80 


THE GABLE 


came here last year, in fact, but Fm living here, and 
may go on living here, till I cease living altogether. 
You're a jolly girl; you ought to stay.” 

His eyes were keen on Cis’s face, handsome eyes, 
softly blue, somewhat veiled by dark lashes, yet 
seeing eyes that could be keen as they now were, 
studying this singular girl who was so ready to talk, 
yet did not strike him as bold, but rather as 
maidenly. “Boyish sort, I think, but you never can 
he sure of them at first,” thought the man. 

“I may stay on,” Cis was answering meanwhile. 
“I came to stay, if things worked out; got tired of 
the place where I d always lived, and jumped off. 
I’ve a letter to Mr. Lucas, here, and he may have 
a position for me by Monday.” 

“You’re one of the independent army, then?” 
asked the young man. “Well, you don’t look like a 
pampered, spoiled one! (This partly explains 
her”) he thought. “Do you mean Wilmer Lucas? 
Dear me! Your letter was addressed high up in 
the line of this town; Wilmer Lucas is the big man 
of Beaconhite!” 

“That’s the way he struck me,” agreed Cis. 
“There’s a chair vacant for you.” 

“Certainly not; you take it,” protested the young 
man. 

“Not a bit of it! You were here first; I’m not 
one of the sort that wants to grab privilege, because 
I’m a girl. I’m in the world like a man, and I like 
give and take; straight play. Besides, I’m just kill¬ 
ing time; I’ve nowhere to go, nothing to do till I 
get my position—if I do!” said Cis. 


THE CABLE 


81 


The young man glanced down at Cis’s shoes, 
which were not badly in need of polishing. He 
was far too attractive not to have known long ago 
that women liked to talk to him, admired his face 
and manner. Had this girl come in because she 
saw him, and wanted to make the acquaintance of 
so personable a young man? She had said that she 
was killing time. He speculated upon Cis while he 
took the chair which she refused, and the attendant 
treated his shoes, which sadly needed it. 

The next chair vacated was Cis’s in justice; the 
other man who had been waiting a turn had pre¬ 
ceded Cis’s acquaintance; his shoes had been at¬ 
tended to and he had quickly gone out. 

Cis mounted her chair, and another attendant 
dressed and polished her shoes, which her neighbor 
and acquaintance viewed with approval. 

He was through before Cis, but he lingered; in 
an instant, after hesitating, he turned to her, and 
said: 

“You are merely killing time, and I’ve nothing 
on this morning; I’m going to wait for you.” 

“That’s nice of you!” cried Cis heartily. “I 
hoped you would. It’s pretty punk being alone, a 
stranger in a strange land.” 

She paid her charge, dismounted, and went out 
into the hotel corridor, followed by her new ac¬ 
quaintance, still somewhat uncertain how to take 
Cis, but considerably helped in an accurate esti¬ 
mate of her by the boyish frankness with which she 
had acknowledged hoping that he would wait for 
her. 


82 


THE CABLE 


“How about going into the tea room and fitting 
on our labels ?” suggested the young man. “There’s 
not likely to be anyone there at this hour, and I 
feel it in my bones that we’ve not met just to part, 
so we ought to waste no time in learning whom 
we’ve met, each of us. Names matter less; they’re 
only labels, but I’d like to have you tell me all 
about yourself. You’re not like most girls.” 

“All right; tea room is all right,” assented Cis. 
“It won’t take me long to tell you about Cecily 
Adair; she’s just like other girls!” 

“That’s never your name! Why it’s a song!” 
cried the young man. 

“Mine, though!” laughed Cis. “I’m called Cis. 
Haven’t you a name; chorus or hymn, if mine’s a 
6ong?” 

“Yes, but it’s just a name, nothing in the musical 
line. Hope you don’t mind names parted in the 
middle? My name is George Rodney Moore, but 
I use the middle name, sign G. Rodney, you know,” 
said the young man, and he looked as if he really 
hoped that Cis would not disapprove his name. 

“Gee! Rodney!” cried Cis, but quickly added, 
as if she feared to hurt him by what was not ridi¬ 
cule, but unavoidable nonsense: 

“Rodney is a fine name; I like it. I don’t blame 
you for shedding the George, and using it. I sup¬ 
pose I’d drop George altogether, and keep only Rod¬ 
ney, but you can do that later, if you want to. Oh, 
do you like stuffy tea rooms? Why not go out into 
the air—that is, if you really want to lighten my 
gloom?” 


THE CABLE 


83 


“It’s the other way about, Miss Adair. I should 
like being out on this fine day, but you surely have 
been taught by this time that you are sent into the 
world to lighten the gloom of any man whom you" 
will tolerate,” G. Rodney Moore said experiment¬ 
ally. 

They had turned toward the side entrance of the 
hotel; in the doorway Cis stopped short. 

“See here, none of that; cut it out, if you please,” 
she said. “I like boys, but I don’t like them one 
bit when they forget I’m not one, and you wouldn’t 
say that sort of thing to a boy, now would you?” 

“No, I’m free to confess that I would not!” cried 
Moore, and he chuckled. “All right, old chap, 
you’re the kind that makes it jolly for a pal— 
better?” 

“Heaps!” said Cis, and laughed. “You lead; 
you know the country and I don’t.” 

“Like to walk? Because I know a nice place, 
but it’s fairly far, and taxis grow in this soil, if 
you’ll have one,” suggested Moore. 

“I’m a walker; I’ll risk the distance,” replied 
Cis, and they started out. 

Three miles from the Beacon Head they came 
into a pretty glade, wooded, suggestive at a glance 
of song birds and flowers. Here they seated them¬ 
selves, Cis on a bank, G. Rodney Moore just below 
her. All the way there they had talked, Cis with 
her customary frankness, till, on their arrival, 
Moore had justly decided that she was exactly what 
she seemed and announced herself to be; a single- 
minded, honest girl, of extraordinary directness 


84 


THE CABLE 


and simplicity; lonely, wanting comradeship, not 
hesitating to take it where she should find it, with 
confidence that she would find understanding 
where she found congeniality, and without the 
smallest shade of coquetry, or of hidden purpose. 

“Mighty odd, quite unique, but the gods were 
good to me when they let her decide that I’d 
answer for a stop-gap till she got acquainted in 
Beaconhite. Never saw her equal! It will be my 
own fault if I let her drift away from me, and I 
won’t!” he told himself, listening to Cis’s merry 
talk, watching her changing face, all gay laughter 
and wholesome sweetness, its red hair framing it in 
an aureole, wind-made. 

Cis told Rodney all about herself; he told her 
some things about himself. They were friends at 
the end of the little excursion, “pals,” Cis liked to 
call it, finding this “pal” more delightful than any 
other she had known; clever, humorous, charming. 
She did not hesitate to speak of this charm. 

“I didn’t know anyone but a girl had your kind 
of fun; boys don’t usually know how to play your 
way,” Cis cried delightedly. “You’re lots of fun, 
and you’re really as nice as you can be!” 

“I’m not a boy, Cicely,” Rodney replied, a trifle 
sadly—they were Cicely and Rodney by this time. 
“I don’t suppose I played this way when I was a 
boy, but I had the material in me and experience 
cultivated it. Glad you like me, jolly Cicely.” 

“Yes, I do. It was luck that made me find you 
to-day; I knew luck was running my way when I 
came to Beaconhite! Aren’t you a boy, quite 


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young, anyway? You haven't told me that,'’ said 

Cis. 

“I’m thirty, shall be thirty-one next spring, and 
that’s beyond boyhood. Why do you lay such 
stress on boyhood, my dear? Neither it, nor girl¬ 
hood lasts,” he said. 

“I shall be twenty-two on Christmas Day,” said 
Cis slowly. “I don’t know why, but I belong with 
boys; I don’t belong with grown men.” 

“Only with this grown man. We’re friends, and 
dates don’t alter it,” he said quickly. “Were you 
born on Christmas Day? What a sell! Shame, 
Pal-Cicely.” 

“Shame? Why is it? I always liked it a lot; 
nice day to be born on, seems to me,” cried Cis. 

“The whole world glad on your birthday, and-” 

she checked herself. 

“Does you out of a separate festa, and additional 
gifts,” said Rodney. “But your magnificent hair 
would serve for Christmas decorations; I never saw 
such hair, Cicely! I’m going to call you Holly; do 
you mind?” 

“Not I!” Cis laughed delightedly. “It isn’t that 
kind of red, but it’s pretty flaring.” 

“It is glorious; copper, gold and pure flame! 
Wouldn’t Titian have had a fit over it! Holly, I 
hate to say it, but if we’re to lunch, we’ve got to be 
getting back to it,” suggested Rodney. 

“I am hungry,” agreed Cis. “I’ve had a fine 
morning; much obliged. You’ve no idea how 
lonely I was beginning to feel, and the girls I tried 
to creep up toward poked me off with icy finger- 



86 


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tips, wouldn’t stoop to use a whole palm! Are you 
going to introduce me to some nice girls ?” 

“Want another pal already?” Rodney said re¬ 
proachfully. 

“Oh, no; you’re all-around satisfactory, but I do 
want to know girls, too. Please let me know your 
nicest friends,” begged Cis, laughing, but in ear¬ 
nest. 

Rodney considered. Rapidly he passed in men¬ 
tal review the girls whom he knew; society girls, 
young matrons, some of other rank. None to 
whom he could compare this dewy, sweet, merry, 
daring, innocent Cicely, none with whom he could 
think of her in combination. 

“I’ll look some up, Cicely,” he said. “I had a 
sister, but she has been gone these many years, and 
would have been too old for you; older than I am. 
We’re all right as we are for the time being, aren't 
we?” 

“Happy as clams!” cried Cis. “Now if I get my 
position, with a pal in town, and a place like that— 
how about it?” 

“Nifty!” cried Rodney. “Will you go to a show 
with me to-night? I know of private theatricals 
for a charity, and they won’t be half bad. Will you 
go, dear young pal of mine?” He sang the refrain 
of the song, one word appropriately altered. 

“Yes, but Dutch treat!” cried Cis, and as he was 
about to expostulate, she added: “Or not at all. 
If I’m to be a real pal, then I stand on my 
own, just as real pals do and should. Dutch treat? 
Say yes, and I’ll say yes, with pleasure.” 


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87 


“Yes, then, but you’re a girl all right; girls insist 
on their own way,” grumbled Rodney. 

Cis laughed, and threw her hat into the air, 
catching it deftly. 

“Best of both parts, the girl’s and the boy’s, 
that’s what this Cis Adair is out for, and independ¬ 
ence comes both ways,” she triumphed. 


• K - « | *•* 


l*% i • 


CHAPTER VI 


BEGINNING 


OMING back into the lobby of the Beacon 
Head, Cis darted ahead of Rodney Moore and 
up to the clerk’s desk. Here in her particular 
pigeonhole, held down by the key of her room with 
its broad, portable mooring displaying the same 
number as the pigeonhole, lay a letter, fallen 
almost flat. Cis saw at once that the upper left cor¬ 
ner bore the name she sought: “Lucas and Hender¬ 
son,” in exceedingly clear-cut small Roman letters, 
the firm address engraved below them. 

“My key and mail, please,” said Cis, trying to 
appear casual, in reality stirred by hope and fear. 
Somehow she did not want to leave Beaconhite; 
suddenly she found it desirable to stay on here, and 
this letter might compel her to travel on, unless 
she were able to stumble upon employment by 
strangers, to whom she had no introduction. 

Cis walked back to where Rodney Moore awaited 
her beside a small leather-covered sofa, turning the 
letter in her hands. 

“My verdict has come in; my lawyers have noti¬ 
fied me,” she said, dropping on the brown seat, tip¬ 
ping her head back against the sofa-back, uncon¬ 
scious that the dark brown leather made a perfect 

88 


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89 


background for her copper-red hair. “Wonder if 
it is that I’m to go farther?” 

“No, sir! Too certain that you’d fare worse!” 
declared Rodney promptly. “You’re not going an 
inch out of Beaconhite, that’s flat! I can put you 
into something; poor enough, but enough to hold 
on by till you find what you want. Open up, 
Cicely; read your offer of $10,000 a year!” 

Cis “opened up,” slitting the end of the envelope 
with the point of her bar pin, prolonging the opera¬ 
tion in a way unlike herself. 

The communication which she unfolded was 
brief, compactly typed in the middle of a large 
page. It read: 

Miss Cicely Adair, 

The Beacon Head, Beaconhite. 

Dear Miss Adair:— 

I am prepared to offer you a position in my per¬ 
sonal service, as my secretary. Your duties I vaguely 
outlined to you when you called upon me. Your salary 
would be, to begin, $42.00 per week, or $7.00 per day. 
If you prove competent, still more, if you prove satis¬ 
factory in the ways more important than mere skill, of 
which I spoke to you, your salary will soon exceed this 
sum. If this offer is acceptable to you, kindly report 
for duty on Monday next, at my office, at nine-thirty 
in the morning. 

Yours truly, 

Wilmer Lucas. 

“Great little old snarled up signature!” com¬ 
mented Rodney, whom Cicely had permitted to 
read the letter with her. “Wouldn’t be easy to 
forge! Not a bad salary, my Holly friend, and the 


90 


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increase will be swift, or else you won’t stay. Not 
bad. We’ll have a supper after the private theatri¬ 
cals, to celebrate; just we two!” 

“Let me off from the theatricals, please, will you, 
Rodney?” asked Cis. “I’ve been sorry I said I’d 
go, anyway; it’ll be kind of a cross between a place 
where you’ve a right to go, and a place where 
you’re intruding. I know ’em; they’re always like 
that! All the friends and relations of the perform¬ 
ers are there—like a funeral!—and they talk 
across to one another, and look at a person as if 
they wondered how on earth you broke in—selling 
tickets for a charity doesn’t calm ’em. But what’s 
more, I ought not to go anywhere to-night, except 
to boarding houses. I’ve got to find a place to live, 
if I’m going to stay in Beaconhite; can’t stand $5.00 
a day at this hotel, wouldn’t leave much for—well, 
for having my shoes polished, for instance!” She 
stopped to enjoy her own allusion with the liquid 
gurgle of laughter that did not pass her throat, for 
which Rodney Moore had already learned to wait 
with anticipation. 

“But it is a nice salary to begin on, isn’t it? I 
knew Friday was my lucky day! Found a jolly 
pal who suits me fine, and got my job! Wonder if 
Christmas fell on Friday the year I was born?” 
Cis ended with another little suppressed laugh. 

“What a girl! You don’t mind letting a chap 
know that you think he’s all right, and are glad that 
you found him, do you?” cried Rodney, puzzled 
but admiring, somewhat piqued, nevertheless; such 
frankness was prohibitive as well as welcoming. 



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91 


“Don’t mind anything that’s honest! Besides, 
pals don’t flirt. You didn’t say whether you’d let 
me off from the movies—I mean the theatricals?” 
Cis said. 

“What else can I do?” retorted Rodney. “If you 
don’t want to go, I’m not going to force it. But as 
to boarding places, what’s the matter with coming 
where I am? Funny old girl keeps it, but her 
heart’s so big she has to cover it up. She sets a 
great table, and neat’s no word for her! You could 
be as happy with one of her old-fashioned dinners 
served on the floor as on the table, and her 
kitchen’s shining clean! You’ll never find another 
place as good. I’ll speak to Miss Gallatin, and en¬ 
gage the place for you; I know there’s a room 
empty now, though it doesn’t often happen.” 

“Good boy, Rodney Moore!” Cis approved him. 
“Then I won’t go hunting board, but I don’t want 
to go to the theatricals. I’ll write Nan and Miss 
Lucas.” 

“You’re not bidding me run away and play by 
myself this first evening, are you?” Rodney made 
a great show of consternation, but watched Cis. 

“Not if you want to play with me,” Cis told him. 
“But how about those theatricals? Thought you 
were booked for them.” 

“Oh, bother the theatricals! I’ve bought two 
tickets and that’s all I’m obliged to do about them,” 
declared Rodney. “I’d rather play with you; 
you’re a discovery, Miss Cicely Adair.” 

Then he remembered the handsome girl who was 
playing the leading part in the theatricals that 


92 


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night, the girl who had social position, wealth and 
glorious beauty, though not charm, nor more than 
a somewhat minus allowance of brains, but in re¬ 
gard to whom G. Rodney Moore had definite plans. 
He was surprised to find that he had forgotten Ger¬ 
trude Davenport till Cis indirectly reminded him 
of her; remembering her now, her beauty did not 
seem so glorious as usual as his eyes rested on the 
varied expression of Cis’s face. There was no 
denying that this new girl had charm and to spare. 

“A discovery? Well, if it comes to that, I’m not 
as sure as I’d like to be that I’m the discovery; I 
suspect that I discovered you. Come around, if 
you want to, and tell me what your Miss Gallagher 
says about taking me to board; get her terms, and 
the whole thing. But if you change your mind 
about the theatricals, it’s perfectly all right. Call 
me up, though, please, because if I’m not going to 
your boarding house I’ve got to hunt up another, 
start out early in the morning. I’ll look for you 
at half past eight or so, but I’ll not mind a speck 
if you go to your private theatricals. So don’t feel 
tied up.” Cis spoke with crisp cheerfulness, hav¬ 
ing risen and begun moving toward the stairs, her 
eyes on the clock behind the desk. 

“H’m! Pleasant to be told you’re as welcome to 
be absent as to be present, that you don’t matter a 
whoop!” grumbled Rodney, and meant it. “I’ll 
be around. Miss Cicely, and don’t you forget it! 
I’d come, if it was only to begin your lessons in 
finding me necessary! Congratulations are in 
order, by the way; I forgot to offer them. You 


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93 


landed a big fish when you landed the private secre¬ 
taryship to Wilmer Lucas! We’ll celebrate— 
when? To-morrow? Sunday?” 

“Not to-morrow; I’ve got to get settled living 
somewhere, permanently,” said Cis. 

“Sunday, then? Do you lie late Sunday? Any 
objections to a pleasant time on that day? I don’t 
suspect you of Puritanism! I myself get up about 
noon on Sunday, but I’m ready to forego my 
needed rest and trot you out in the forenoon. If 
not, we’ll lunch somewhere, and go for a jolly time 
afterward,” suggested Rodney. 

“Time enough to talk about Sunday,” returned 
Cis. “I usually get up fairly early; Sunday, too, 
but I don’t spend the day psalm reading. Run 
along; I’m busy. Let me know about Miss Gal¬ 
lagher by telephone, or otherwise.” 

“Otherwise; at eight-thirty sharp. By the way, 
it’s Gallatin, not Gallagher. Good-bye, Holly. 
You’re a peach, and I’m glad we had our shoes 
polished!” cried Rodney. 

Cis laughed, and ran up the stairs, scorning the 
elevator. At the landing she caught a glimpse of 
Rodney standing where she had left him, watching 
her. She started to turn back to wave him a sup¬ 
plementary farewell, but checked herself, and went 
on without betraying that she knew he was still 
there. She finished her journey up the second sec¬ 
tion of the stairway, wondering at herself. Never 
before in all her life had she refused herself the 
expression of a friendly impulse. Was it shyness? 
Could it be coquetry that had held her hand from 



94 


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that last salute? She had never been shy; she 
scorned coquetry. “Air of Beaconhite doesn’t 
agree with you, Cis, my dear old chap!” she warned 
herself. 

Miss Hannah Gallatin was a character, as Rod¬ 
ney had implied. She was tall and gaunt, almost 
stern in manner, curt of word, severe, but there was 
no kinder creature in the world than this lonely 
maiden woman who had no one of kith nor kin on 
whom to lavish love, who therefore, perhaps, had 
taught herself not to express it except by ceaseless 
deeds of kindness, done as if they were penal. 

She was a convert to the Catholic Church, one 
that would not have been predicted, but Father 
Morley, of St. Francis’ church, himself the son of 
a convert to the Old Faith, had many converts to 
his credit; among them Hannah Gallatin, who, if 
she did not grace it in one sense, certainly was an 
honor to it in all essential senses. 

To this fine, though eccentric person G. Rodney 
Moore repaired upon his return from the Beacon 
Head. In the course of his walk, meditating upon 
Cicely Adair, he had warmed into a great admira¬ 
tion for her wit, her charm, her kindliness, her un¬ 
mistakable purity of thought and deed below her 
boyish daring, which might easily be misunder¬ 
stood. Therefore the enthusiasm he felt for Cis 
escaped into his eyes and voice as he laid before 
Miss Gallatin the need that “a friend of his” had 
of a good home, a comfortable room, nice sur¬ 
roundings, “not the ordinary boarding house,” he 
added, feeling himself diplomatically clever. “This 


THE CABLE 


95 


Miss Adair,” he went on to say, “is precisely the 
kind of girl whom Miss Gallatin would like about; 
he felt proud to be the one to offer such a perfect 
fit, from both points of view, for Miss Gallatin’s 
cozy room, now vacant.” 

“Oh!” said Miss Gallatin, regarding Rodney at¬ 
tentively. She did not wholly like this one of her 
boarders, though she knew no justification of her 
distrust. He had come to her, a stranger in the 
city; had been regular in his goings and comings; 
orderly in the house; agreeable to his fellow- 
guests ; he never went to church, but Miss Gallatin 
knew that in the present generation of Protestants 
this proved nothing worse than that they had let 
go of the illogical anchorage of their fathers; she 
did not know that G. Rodney’s last name had been 
drawn from that green sod wherein church-going 
was a totally different matter. If she had known 
that this Moore had been an Irish name in the time 
of its present possessor’s great-grandfather, she 
would have exclaimed: “There!” triumphantly, 
but she had no suspicion that Rodney Moore had 
been brought up to go to Mass. “He did not show 
it,” as she might have said. “Oh!” Miss Gallatin 
now exclaimed, adding at once: “Ah! Friend of 
yours, you say? Schoolmate? How long’ve you 
known her? Live in Beaconhite?” 

“She is going to live here,” said Rodney, flush¬ 
ing, annoyed, trying to hide it in order not to 
frustrate his own ends. “She has just come here, 
five days ago. She is to be Wilmer Lucas’ secre¬ 
tary; his brother sent her to him, and she’s not the 


96 


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sort of girl to chum in with all sorts. She’s an 
awfully nice girl, Miss Gallatin; just your kind!” 

“Like me?” hinted Miss Gallatin. “Character or 
looks? About my complexion and figure. I’ll bet 
a dollar! Can’t be quite my age. How long did 
you say you’d known her?” 

“Not long,” said Rodney. “But I know her well; 
she’s that frank sort that hasn’t a thing to hide; 
fearless, straight, boyish, but not tom-boyish—get 
the idea? I’m perfectly sure you’ll like her beyond 
anything. I’ll bring her around this evening; she’s 
at the Head. You can let her see the room, arrange 
terms, give her a look over with your eagle eye— 
and the thing’s done! I’d like her in the house, of 
course; she’s the kind of girl that is like a nice 
sister, chummy, helpful, if you get me? But for 
her own sake I want her here, where you’ll give her 
just what she needs in every way. I’ll bring her 
around; I told her I’d see her after dinner to¬ 
night.” 

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” declared Miss 
Gallatin. “You told me you had tickets for the 
theatricals. Isn’t Gertrude Davenport in ’em? 
Forgotten all about it? Met this new girl for the 
first time to-day, I’ll wager! She must be some¬ 
thing of a cyclone! You needn’t bring her around, 
Mr. G. Rodney Moore; I’m not going to let my 
vacant room to her, whether all you say of her is 
true, or whether it isn’t!” 

“You’re not willing so much as to show it to her? 
To meet her? Strange way to act, Miss Gallatin! 



THE CABLE 


9? 


I am justified in resenting it,” said Rodney with 
dignity. 

"Nothing of the sort!” cried Miss Gallatin 
briskly. ^Don’t have theatricals here; better go to 
them. She may be a nice girl, but the nicer she is 
the more reason for keeping her out of the same 
house where the young man boards whom she got 
acquainted with, dear knows how! I wouldn’t con¬ 
sider taking her, not if every room but yours was 
vacant! So that’s settled.” 

“She is a fine girl, I tell you! She’s not exactly 
pretty, but she has the sort of face you like to 
watch, and her hair is a wonder; loads of bright 
coppery red hair, and she is full of jolly, kiddish 
fun, straight and good. I respect her like every¬ 
thing. Good gracious, Miss Gallatin, I’m over 
thirty; do you suppose I don’t know a nice girl when 
I see one and talk to her unreservedly? I respect 
Miss Adair as much as I admire her!” cried Rod¬ 
ney, surprised later on to find how much he cared 
about the defence of Cicely. 

“Right! Keep on respecting her,” said Miss 
Gallatin. “Send her to Mrs. Wallace’s; she keeps 
a good house, sets a good table, good’s mine. I 
won’t have her here. Hold on a minute, Mr. 
Moore! Send her around to talk with me to¬ 
morrow, sometime. I won’t let her board here, but 
I’ll take her to see Mrs. Wallace. If she can’t come 
to-morrow, send her Sunday. Don’t you take her 
to Mrs. Wallace’s; I will. She’s a stranger here, 
going to work for Mr. Lucas where she’ll be no- 


98 


THE GABLE 


ticed. Don’t start her wrong by escorting her to look 
up her boarding place. People are queer things; 
they’re more than likely to hope for the worst. 
Send the girl to me. I won’t take her in here, but 
I’ll do by her as Fd want done by me, if I was a 
young Hannah Gallatin, setting out to earn my 
living in a strange place. From what you say of 
her, she’s a conspicuous sort of girl that people with 
keen palates for gossip will be likely to lick to get 
a flavor of delicious suspicion! That’s the best I 
can do and say, so take yourself off, Mr. Moore, if 
you please; I’ve got my weekly accounts to make 
up, and it’s always a trial to my eyes, and my 
nerves, also my temper—of course, after the other 
two!” 

There was nothing for Rodney to do but to ac¬ 
cept defeat with as much grace as he could sum¬ 
mon. There was consolation in the thought that 
Miss Gallatin was willing to see Cicely, though 
only to conduct her to a rival house. He hoped 
that seeing her. Miss Gallatin might yield her posi¬ 
tion ; he felt entire confidence in Cicely’s ability to 
win anyone’s complete trust and liking. There was 
no denying that Miss Gallatin was a wise and kind 
dragon in her guardianship of this girl whom she 
had never seen. 

Sunday morning Cicely betook herself to Mass 
at eight o’clock, keeping up her old hour, reflecting 
with a sense of bewilderment that only the previous 
Sunday she had heard Mass in the only church 
which, up to tliis time, she had ever known, and 
that Nan was with her, and that she had returned 



THE CABLE 


99 


with her into the familiar Dowling household, 
where young Tom gloomed over their near parting 
and Mrs. Dowling lectured her on probable dangers 
which clearly implied her own deficiencies. And 
now she was beginning life in Beaconhite, up¬ 
rooted, yet already replanted, on a larger salary, 
in promising conditions. She had a new friend 
with whom she was to do something new and pleas¬ 
ant that afternoon. She was a lucky Cis, she 
thought, kneeling, without much concentration 
upon it, before the altar, well in the front of the 
church of St. Francis Xavier at the eight o’clock 
Mass. 

The priest who said this Mass was not young; he 
was remarkably tall, his shoulders contracted from 
the reading habit; his hair grey; his eyes deep-set 
and glowing with singular light; his nose large and 
handsome; his mouth finely cut, somewhat sad, yet 
ready to smile, as Cis found out when he turned to 
his people and began to speak after the reading of 
the Gospel. A remarkable man, whom Cis began 
to watch intently, feeling at once attracted and re¬ 
pulsed by him, as if she sensed in him the im¬ 
planted power of the Holy Ghost which all who 
knew Father Morley said was his gift, the power 
that reads souls and irresistibly draws them. 

Once Cis was sure that the priest’s eyes met her 
own, full and steadily; that he knew her for a 
stranger, and measured her. She liked him, yet she 
feared him; coming out of the church slowly, borne 
by the pressure of the immense throng into the 
outer air, she was conscious of relief, and was glad 


» 1 * » 
> > 

> y o 


> 


100 


THE GABLE 


that it “was not her way to know the priest; that 
one was-” 

Someone touched her arm, a tall, thin, stern 
looking woman, with clear, kindly eyes, at whom 
Cis looked questioningly, her formulation of Fa¬ 
ther Morley suspended. “Are you Miss Adair, I 
wonder?” asked the woman. 

“Yes; Cicely Adair,” replied Cis. 

“I saw you were a stranger. Taking your hair, 
and all together, I thought you must be the girl Mr. 
Moore talked to me about taking. I’m Miss Gal¬ 
latin, Hannah Gallatin. Come home with me; I’m 
going to get you a good boarding place, but not in 
my house. Fasting?” said Miss Gallatin, speaking 
with a sort of crisp rapidity. 

“No; I had breakfast at the hotel as soon as the 
doors were opened,” said Cis. “Mr. Moore said you 
didn’t want me, because he knew me, or words to 
that effect.” 

“Neither do I, though I see he judged you right; 
G. Rodney always struck me as a man who could 
judge a woman accurately,” said Miss Gallatin. 
“Didn’t suppose you’d turn out to be a Catholic. 
Convert, like myself?” 

“No,” said Cis. “I was born one; I’m several 
kinds of races, all Catholic, except my mother, and 
she had English blood; half of her blood was Eng¬ 
lish Protestant. But none of my people came from 
their old countries lately; they were all great or 
still greater grandparents who came over here, so 
I’m quite thoroughly American, as things go. 



THE CABLE 


101 


Goodness, I don’t care a rap about such things! 
I’m here, Cis Adair, and what do I care!” 

“Verse?” asked Miss Gallatin. 

“No ; worse! Just a fluke; it does rhyme, doesn’t 
it?” laughed Cis. “Rod said you wanted to steer 
me to a house you knew about, though you 
wouldn’t have me in yours. Kind of you. Miss 
Gallatin—at least half of it is!” 

“It surely is, and it’s the half you don’t mean!” 
agreed Miss Gallatin. “I’ve had no breakfast. 
Come with me, and after I’ve seen to my household, 
and eaten, I’ll take you to Mrs. Wallace. Mr. 
Moore never gets up till noon, Sundays; you won’t 
see him. You call him Rod; known him long?” 

“Mercy yes! Forty-eight hours!” Cis’s laugh 
rang out. '"You see, Miss Gallatin, I’ve been out in 
the world, earning my living since I was old enough 
to earn it, and that was early, because I was always 
quick to learn, and I was about twenty when I was 
fourteen. I’ve always had boy friends, and I’m not 
a bit afraid to chum with them. I’ve some good 
girl friends, chiefly one, but it’s the nice boy who 
always takes you as you want to be taken. So when 
I met Rod Moore we fell right together; I was get¬ 
ting green-lonely, and I’m pleased as pleasure to 
have him like me and see me on my way.” 

“I see!” Miss Gallatin evidently did see, yet Cis 
felt that her agreement was noncommittal, in¬ 
volving something that she did not understand. “I 
like you, too, Cis—did you say Cis?—Adair, and I 
hope you’ll let me help you out, if ever Beaconhite 



102 


THE CABLE 


gets too tight for you; presses on any sore 
spot.” 

“Haven’t one!” cried Cis. “Thanks, Miss Gal¬ 
latin ; I like you, and I didn’t like you one bit till I 
saw you! I suppose it’s all right of you to shove 
me off, hut it isn’t sensible, either; I could board 
in the house with all my hoy chums, be the only 
girl in the offing, and it would go as smooth as silk.” 

“You may have knocked about the world, as you 
say you have, Cis Adair, and you may have been 
twenty at fourteen, but at twenty-two—I’d guess? 
—you are four in some ways, and your experience 
is by no means rounded out,” said Miss Gallatin 
oracularly. “Prudence is one of the gifts of the 
Holy Ghost, my dear, as your catechism taught you, 
and it’s one of His most valuable gifts to attractive 
young women, left alone in the world.” 

“I don’t remember much catechism, Miss Galla¬ 
tin,” said honest Cis, with her happy laugh. “I 
learned some of it when I was confirmed, but I’m 
not much of a Catholic. Of course Fd never be a 
Protestant,” she added hastily, “but my religion 
doesn’t bother me much.” 

“No; it wasn’t founded for that purpose,” re¬ 
turned Miss Gallatin. “I wonder how you will be 
taught to value it? You’ve got to learn, of course 
you know that.” 

Cis looked at her startled, and she was silent for 
a moment in which her mind went out toward an 
invisible, infinite track, down which sorrow and 
suffering, vague, threatening, nameless, molding 
events, were advancing upon her. Cicely Adair, 



THE CABLE 


103 


fearless, free, strong, independent, would be tamed, 
bound, caught, crushed, perhaps; signed by the 
cross, and thus learn its meaning. 

Cicely shook off the fear that gripped her, the 
first fear that in all her life had ever assaulted her 
deep in her heart. Why had it thus assailed her? 
What had made her vulnerable to a shaft from the 
hand of this gaunt woman, past middle age, whose 
effects were almost grotesque? Cis threw back her 
radiant head with a short, unmirthful laugh. 

“Did they name you Hannah because you were 
going to be a prophetess, Miss Gallatin?” she asked. 


CHAPTER VII 


CODES 

O ICELY had been three weeks in the service of 
Mr. Wilmer Lucas, four weeks a resident of 
Beaconhite. Although it lacked three days of 
being a calendar month the time seemed to her to 
stretch indefinitely backward into such length, that 
she had to stop to reckon up how long it actually 
had been. New experiences were crowding upon 
her, filling each day with interests so absorbing that 
the hours sped by, yet left a residue of the effect of 
more than twice their duration. Cicely was con¬ 
scious of changes wrought upon herself by these 
swiftly passing days, changes so far undefined, yet 
not the less perceptible. 

For one thing, her new friendship was proving 
interesting as none other had ever before interested 
her. Cicely had had many friends among the boys, 
and, later, among the young men of her acquaint¬ 
ance, but though they had been “jolly good fun,” 
as she put it, they were not especially interesting. 
She was easily the dominant one in every case; the 
chief interest afforded her by these youths was 
when they temporarily spoiled her theory of per¬ 
fect comradeship between the sexes, which was 
devoid of sentiment, by falling in love with her, 
but this, although it interested her, displeased her. 

104 


THE CABLE 


105 


She invariably swung back into her faith in the 
possibility of a chum of the opposite sex, but it was 
annoying to find it so often a theory that failed only 
in its workings. 

In G. Rodney Moore, Cicely had a friend of a 
totally new sort. He was older than she was, for 
one thing; he had seen immensely more of the 
world than she had, for another; he had read more 
than she had, let alone than any of her previous 
male friends. Most of all, he had an easy certainty 
of himself; an amused toleration of her insuffi¬ 
ciently grounded opinions; a ready wit; great 
charm of face, voice and manner, so that, for the 
first time, Cicely found herself by no means able to 
hold the ascendency over him with which she had 
set out dealing with him, which had always, hereto¬ 
fore, been hers in dealing with young men. And, 
being essentially feminine beneath her boyish 
ways, she liked the man who dominated, while he 
admired her. There was much of the excitement 
of exploration for her in advancing constantly far¬ 
ther into friendship with this man. 

Her work was also opening out new vistas to 
Cicely, daily demanding from her hitherto dormant 
capacity, skill of hand, but far more quickness of 
brain, judgment, discretion, all-around intelli¬ 
gence. It was transforming her day by day; al¬ 
though she did not definitely recognize this, yet its 
effect upon her was to increase the bewilderment 
of mind with which she was adjusting to new con¬ 
ditions, and to what was to prove the greatest 
experience of her life. 


106 


THE CABLE 


Cicely had been well educated with reference to 
practical ends; she and Nan had been superior to 
the majority of the girls amid whom they were 
employed; their position in the telephone exchange 
had been honorable, but not dignified. Now Cicely 
found herself surrounded by the portentous dig¬ 
nity of the private office of a lawyer who was, at 
the same time, a bank president, the great man of 
the city. 

Solid men, both physically and financially solid, 
came to consult Mr. Lucas; Cis was gravely saluted 
by them as they entered and departed; she heard 
matters discussed which her keen wits soon showed 
her were of gravest importance in the money mar¬ 
ket, even in national affairs. All her former days 
had been lighted by nonsense for which she found 
opportunity among her companions; fun and non¬ 
sense were as the breath of life to Cicely Adair. 
Now from nine till four there was not only a com¬ 
plete dearth of opportunity to play, but the mere 
thought of trifling within those solemn, mahogany 
wainscoted walls, intruded like a profanation. 

Cis was expected to be well-dressed, perfectly 
groomed—but this was natural to her. She was 
expected to take down any sort of dictation cor¬ 
rectly, even to the dictation that she be elegantly 
correct in manner, reserved, silent, yet devoted, 
and this dictation was never given her directly but 
by the assumption that she was all these things. 
4 Tm getting turned into a regular heavy damask, 
ten dollars a square inch,’'’ she told Rodney. 

It was true that this outward pressure inevitably 


THE CABLE 


107 


had an inward effect upon the girl, yet nothing 
could ever quite subdue her native sense of humor, 
her frank friendliness to all the world. 

“Miss Adair,” said Mr. Lucas one morning, “I 
have waited till we were mutually assured of your 
permanence in this office before initiating you into 
one of its secrets. You are quite sure that you 
desire to remain with me?” 

“If I suit you, Mr. Lucas,” answered Cis. “I’m 
happy here, but I’m not sure how I’m coming on.” 

“Satisfactorily, Miss Adair. On my part there 
is no question of severing the connection. Are you 
settled upon continuing?” Mr. Lucas looked at 
Cicely kindly, and she blushed with pleasure. 

“Yes, Mr. Lucas,” she said. “Fm settled upon 
settling.” 

“Ah!” he employer smiled. “Then I am going 
to ask you to learn the office code.” 

“Code?” repeated Cis. 

“We are often involved in cases which would be 
disastrous to great interests if they were known to 
the public. The mails are safe enough, and yet, 
like all human arrangements, they may sometimes 
miscarry. Mr. Henderson; our senior clerk, Mr. 
Saunders; our office in Chicago, and Washington, 
and myself use a code in relation to these affairs 
known only to the principals in our Chicago and 
Washington offices, and the three persons in this 
office whom I have mentioned. We have decided to 
have you learn the code, to use it when occasion 
arises in correspondence with our other two offices. 
Will you learn this code, Miss Adair, and are you 


108 


THE CABLE 


willing to give your solemn pledge that under no 
circumstances, to no human being, will you ever 
disclose it?” Mr. Lucas explained, and waited for 
Cicely’s reply. 

She looked at him with widening eyes, her bril¬ 
liant eyes, dark, of a color that was hard to deter¬ 
mine, varying with her mood and as the light struck 
into them. 

“Sounds like a dandy detective story!” Cis said 
involuntarily. “Yes, I’ll learn the code, provided 
I can learn it, and of course I’ll never teach it to 
anyone else. How do I learn it?” 

“It is set down in a sort of chart; you will study 
it here, of course; the chart must not go out of the 
office. There is an alphabet connected with it; I 
am afraid that vou will find it troublesome, but I 
should like you to master it. By the way, my 
brother has become a Roman Catholic; his family 
is brought up in that religion; do you happen to be 
a Romanist?” Mr. Lucas frowned slightly as he 
asked the question. 

“Yes, Mr. Lucas; I’m a Catholic,” said Cis. 
“Why, please?” 

“Always running to confession? Asking advice 
of the priest on every known and unknown point, 
I suppose! What about the code and its secrecy?” 
said Mr. Lucas. 

Cis laughed outright. “Never asked a priest’s 
advice on anything in all my life; don’t go to con¬ 
fession more than twice a year. I don’t know what 
you mean about the code, Mr. Lucas,” she said. 

“You Romanists are a difficult lot to adjust to,” 


THE CABLE 


109 


said Mr. Lucas. “I strongly object to the principle 
which is fundamental with you, of laying down 
your liberty of thought, being subject to a man, 
taking your opinions from an elevated priest over 
in Rome and acting on them at the dictation of a 
lot of half-educated common priests over here. 
Yet when you don’t keep up with the practices of 
your Church, you are a worthless lot, not often 
trustworthy. I make an exception of you, Miss 
Adair; I am satisfied that you are trustworthy, 
though, apparently, you are what I’ve heard your 
co-religionists call 4 an indifferent Catholic.’ Per¬ 
haps you are on your way out of Romanism? It 
would be a consummation devoutly to be wished. 
As to the code and its secrecy, what I meant is this: 
Suppose a priest wanted to get hold of it—they are 
great people for dipping their oar into other 
people’s waters and muddying them! Suppose a 
matter concerning politics, or the like, were afoot, 
and a priest heard of our code, in which we should 
correspond on such affairs—they are great people 
for finding out things that no one could ever have 
imagined their knowing! Suppose this priest, as 
I was saying, heard of our code and bade you in 
the confessional reveal it to him, what would you 
do?” 

Again Cis laughed, this time with such hearti¬ 
ness, such manifest enjoyment of an absurdity that 
Mr. Lucas was already answered by her mirth. 

“Why, Mr. Lucas,” cried Cis, “you don’t know 
how funny that is, really you don’t! I go to con¬ 
fession at Easter, usually at Christmas; it’s my 


110 


THE CABLE 


birthday, too. And there’s a regular mob; it’s all 
the priests can do to get them all heard. Imagine 
one of them holding up the line while he talked 
code to me! How would he know I was in your 
office, anyway? I wouldn’t have to confess that; 
you only have to confess sins, and it’s not a sin to 
be employed here, Mr. Lucas! Why the poor 
priests try to get in a word of advice to you, and 
tell you what your penance is, but they can’t always 
do much more than say about ten words to you! 
No fear of the code getting talked over! Honest, 
Mr. Lucas, that’s funny!” 

Mr. Lucas looked as though he were not sure that 
this was not impertinence on Cis’s part, but he de¬ 
cided to accept it for what it actually was, bubbling 
amusement over a mistake that struck her as ab¬ 
surd. 

64 Well, I’ve certainly never confessed,” he ad¬ 
mitted, “nor ever shall, but I still think, though my 
supposition is outside your experience so far, that 
the case is entirely possible. What I want to know 
is what you would do if such a demand arose?” 

'"Hold my tongue, of course; what else could I 
do?” replied Cis with convincing promptitude. 
“'He’d have no right to try to get it out of me, and 
f’d have no right to tell him.” 

The code was put into Cicely’s hands the next 
day, her duties so arranged that she should have 
time for its study. To her chagrin she found it 
difficult, although her difficulty was usually in 
learning too fast to be secure of retention, rather 
than in acquiring her tasks. 


THE CABLE 


111 


The third day of work on the code left her still 
uncertain of it when she quitted the office at four 
o’clock to go with Rodney Moore on a part aquatic, 
part walking expedition up the river in his boat, 
out through a lovely wooded country to a knowing 
little restaurant whither Beaconhite people loved 
to repair to dine. A letter from Nan had come to 
add to Cis’s depression; she set forth with a marked 
diminution of her usual blitheness, although this 
expedition with Rodney, in the height of the foliage 
season in October, had been anticipated by her for 
two weeks. When Rodney met her at Mrs. Wal¬ 
lace’s he instantly marked the shadow on Cis’s 
face; he was quick to note every change in that 
variable face which was rapidly becoming the goal 
of his feet, the image hourly before his memory, 

“Anything wrong. Holly Berry? You haven’t so 
much of your usual effect of Christmas-all-the- 
year-around! I thought of that last night, Cis, that 
you were a sort of perpetual Merry Christmas; 
your joyousness was probably a birthday gift to 
you,” Rodney said, pulling her hand through his 
arm with unmistakable satisfaction. 

“That’s nice, Rod!” Cis cried. “I’d like to be 
a Merry Christmas sort of thing. No, there’s noth¬ 
ing wrong. I’ll tell you when we get to the place 
where you’re taking me, or while we’re rowing.” 

“Tell me exactly how there’s nothing wrong, 
Holly? I knew your lights were slightly dimmed. 
How you show your feelings!” Rod laughed with 
satisfaction in this proof of their intimacy, that he 
could instantly discern Cicely’s moods. 


112 


THE CABLE 


“Caught me that time! But it's nothing, truly. 
That old code bothers me; never tackled anything 
else that wouldn’t stay by me over night! The 
alphabet is ridiculous; little scriggles going one 
way, crossed by little scriggles going the other way 
—and they’d all look exactly as well, or as crazy! 
—reversed! I get to wondering why they don’t go 
the other way about, and then I can't remember 
which way they do go! But of course I’ll get them 
fastened down soon; it’s not worth bothering over, 
Rory, my pal.” Cis beamed on Rodney, liking his 
sympathy. 

“Rory?” queried Rodney. 

“Sure-ly! Rory O’Moore, don’t you know? 
That’s really your name; it came to me this morn¬ 
ing while I was getting ready to go out!” Cis 
laughed softly. 

“Oh, by jiminy, Cis, I don’t care what you call 
me if you’ll think of me so frequently. It means 
I’m getting on the inside!” Rodney’s delight was 
unmistakable. “Are you Kathleen bawn?” 

Cis shook her head. “Why?” she asked, then 
blushed fiercely as the words of the old song came 
to her: "Rory O’Moore courted Kathleen bawn.” 

Before she was called upon to speak, just as 
Rodney murmured: 

**Rory 0 Moore courted Kathleen bawn: 

He was bold as the day, she as fair as the morn,” 

an extraordinarily handsome girl, sumptuously 
dressed, beyond the strict propriety of a walking 


THE CABLE 


113 


costume, swung around the corner which they were 
about to cross and almost ran into Cicely and 
Rodney. 

“Why, Gertrude—Miss Davenport!” exclaimed 
Rodney. 

“Oh, good evening, Mr. Moore; I beg your par¬ 
don.” The handsome girl’s glance swept Cis from 
head to foot. “Glad I wore my pongee,” thought 
Cis, reflecting with satisfaction on the lines of her 
tailor-made skirt and gown, its fine linen collar and 
cuffs with their exquisite hand-wrought scallop and 
corners. 

“Awfully glad to meet you, Miss Davenport,” 
Rodney continued. “I’ve wanted you to meet Miss 
Adair. Please waive convention, and let a man 
give you two girls a street introduction. Miss 
Davenport, this is Miss Cicely Adair, a recent and 
great acquisition to Beaconhite. Cicely, this is our 
city’s pride, which is not at all the same thing as 
civic pride.” 

Rodney knew that he was speaking nervously, 
and that his would-be cleverness halted at its in¬ 
tention. 

Gertrude Davenport nodded, a crisp nod, her 
head held sidewise, an amused smile on her lips. 

“Delighted to waive ceremony, of course. Hope 
you like Beaconhite, Miss Dare. We may meet 
again; hope so. I’m not going your way, and am 
in a hurry. Good evening, Mr. Moore, I began to 
think you were no more; glad to see you are still 
in town, alive, you know. I’ve been awfully occu¬ 
pied lately, but I’ll receive you if you wish to come 



114 


THE GABLE 


to the house where you heretofore spent practically 
all your time; dad’s rather grateful for one less 
to disturb him! He says he’s glad he has only 
one daughter!” Gertrude Davenport laughed, but 
her large, full eyes flashed fire. 

“He couldn’t hope to have two like Gertrude; 
his other one, if she’d been bom, would have had 
to wait till Gertrude was out of the way to be vis¬ 
ible. Thanks, Miss Davenport; I’ve been waiting 
my chance, but I’ll get it soon, and you’ll see me 
disturbing the pater!” Rodney assured her, with 
an unfortunate note of condolence in his voice. 

“Thanks; so good of you! Good-bye!” Again 
Gertrude nodded crisply, sidewise, without more 
notice of Cis than another swift, comprehensive 
glance. Then she went rapidly on in her original 
direction. 

Rodney laughed and tucked Cis’s hand into his 
arm. He had been weighing in his mind the over¬ 
whelming attraction which Cis possessed for him, 
against the great advantages which a marriage with 
Gertrude Davenport included: Wealth, social po¬ 
sition, solid business connections, through her 
father; not least a wife so handsome that wherever 
he appeared with her all the other men would turn 
to look at her, envying him. But now that Ger¬ 
trude, in all her splendor of face and form and 
raiment had suddenly appeared beside Cis, Cis’s 
irregular, winsome face, her merry kindliness, her 
clear-eyed purity of heart, mind and purpose so 
overtopped all Gertrude’s advantages, that he knew 
at once that there could be no more debate in his 


THE CABLE 


115 


mind as to which girl he wanted to marry. Debate! 
Why, what was gold beside Cicely’s copper hair? 
What social position beside such a comrade? What 
regular beauty beside Cis’s charm? As to money, 
he could earn all that he needed. Rodney knew 
that his mind was made up for him by the gravity 
weight of Cicely Adair, drawing him; to do him 
justice he was suddenly glowing with an unworldly 
and genuine love for the girl, resolved to win her 
with such desire that there was no question of sac¬ 
rifice for that end. 

“Miss Davenport doesn’t like red hair, per¬ 
haps?” hinted Cis demurely. 

“Perhaps not, Holly. Perhaps she likes to do 
her own liking, solo. But if you ask me, I don’t 
think it matters to the value of one of those red 
hairs, what Miss Davenport doesn’t like, nor— 
which is far more important—what she does like,” 
Rodney said. 

Cis raised her eyebrows; she had not missed 
symptoms, and she was accurate in their diagnosis. 

“It’s a world of changes, Rory O’Moore,” she 
said. “A wise girl accepts them, and, if she’s still 
wiser, she looks for the next change.” 

“You young sinner! Do you mean—” 

“Sinners aren’t prophets, Rod; never mind what 
I mean,” Cis interrupted him. 

Rodney pressed her hand in the crook of his 
elbow; they both laughed and went on their way 
rejoicing, Rodney exuberantly light-hearted, as if 
he had just fallen into a fortune, or had escaped 
a threatening danger. 


116 


THE GABLE 


Arrived at their ultimate destination, after a 
pleasant row up the river, Rodney inducted Cicely 
to the pretty glade of which he had told her, and 
placed her comfortably upon a low knoll. The 
blaze of autumn-tinted maples, oaks and sumacs 
was all around them, so beautiful that Cis caught 
her breath, then laughed to cover the emotion 
which dimmed her eyes. 

“I wonder how it can he so much more beauti¬ 
ful than we can take in!” she said. “It gives me 
no chance at all, though; makes even my hair look 
drab!” 

"Drab! Fd say so!” agreed Rodney derisively. 
“Cis-Holly, how about that code? Eli help you 
with it, if you like; I’m a bird at things of that 
sort.” 

“Can’t be done, Rod! I’m under the solemnest, 
swearingest vow to keep that to myself. I’ll master 
it by to-morrow; I’m sure it will jump into my 
brain suddenly when it gets ready,” Cis answered, 
thanking him with a smile. 

“Something else is shading you,” Rodney re¬ 
minded her. “Said you’d tell me here.” 

“It’s nothing to shade me, really; I ought to be 
glad: it’s Nan,” Cis said slowly. 

“Nan? Anything wrong with her?” Rodney 
asked; he knew Nan by repute. 

“No. But there is a youth, quite a nice youth, 
who has been tagging on after her for some time, 
and I’ve noticed that he was overhauling her, creep¬ 
ing right up on her. And she has written me 
that he has asked her to marry him, and she has 


THE CABLE 


117 


told him that she would give him his answer in 
a week; she wants me to tell her which answer to 
give,” Cis spoke disconsolately. 

“Must be a great girl if she has to ask another 
girl whether she wants to marry a man or not!” 
exclaimed Rodney. “He’d be tickled pink if he 
knew it, probably! What shall you bid her say?” 

“Oh, as to that, she knows what she is going to 
say; that’s only a natural balking, natural to Nan, 
anyway!” Cis smiled. “I’ll tell her to say yes. 
She’s fond of him, and he truly is all right; ever 
so much better than most fellows.” 

“What do you know about 4 most fellows,’ Holly? 
Then, if it’s all right, why do you look downcast 
over it?” Rodney naturally inquired. 

“Silliness,” responded Cis promptly. “But I’m 
fond of Nannie; no girl likes to see her best friend 
marry. It isn’t grudging her happiness, it’s, it’s, 
—I don’t know what it is, but it hurts.” 

44 Well, heaven knows, marriage is a bad thing to 
go into in half the cases, and at least half of the 
other half are dragging, defeating, miserable en¬ 
durance. It isn’t the girl that needs all the pity and 
anxiety; believe me, marriage is rough on a man, 
too. The only comfort is that it’s easy enough to 
slough it off; you can usually get a divorce, luck¬ 
ily!” Rodney spoke so bitterly that Cis stared at 
him. 

“Is marriage so awful?” she asked. “It isn’t 
because I ever thought that it was such a fearful 
risk, that I’m sorry about Nan; it separates us more 
than my coming to Beaconhite does. But divorce 


118 


THE CABLE 


is horrible, at least Nan would never think of it; 
she’s a devout Catholic, and so is Joe Hamilton, 
whom she’ll marry. Have you known marriages 
that turned out so bad as you say?” 

“Rather!” Rodney’s brevity made his answer 
more emphatic, and Cis wondered at the grim look 
upon his face. “Poor Rod, it must have been his 
mother! I’ve thought that he didn’t want to talk 
of her,” she told herself. Then, to banish that 
grimness, she jumped up and cried: “Let’s explore 
a little. Rod; then we must start back; already it 
gets dark early, and I’m going to be hungry in six 
and a half minutes, precisely!” 

“You can’t have anything to eat for fifteen min¬ 
utes!” Rodney laughed, throwing off seriousness 
and triumphing in Cis’s surprise that food were 
within a quarter of an hour’s accessibility. “Did 
you observe that camera, as you thought it, that 
black case? It holds a light supper, my ruddy 
Holly, to preserve your life till a solid one is to 
be had. Now tell me I’m careless of your com¬ 
fort, am mean, and not a good provider!” 

“Never shall I tell you that, Rory O'Moore! I 
never knew anyone so thoughtful. It’s fun to take 
a snack out here, but, please, I don’t want to stay 
late, Rod!” Cis said. 

“Will you go out on Sunday for the whole day? 
Start early? I’ll get up at half past six; we ll be 
off before eight—and I can’t give a stronger proof 
of how I rate the privilege of a day with you in 
the autumn glories!” Rodney smiled, yet meant it. 

“I couldn’t start before—let’s see! Eight, nine 



THE CABLE 


119 


—about quarter to ten, Rod. I’d love to go, 
though,” Cis answered. 

'Too late; the train we’d take leaves at 8:20. 
Why can t you get off as early as I can? You rise 
early Sundays, you told me; I don’t.” Rodney 
looked vexed. 

“Well, there’s Mass,” said Cis. “I always go at 
eight; it’s the first one.” 

“Mass!” Rodney fairly shouted the word. “Good 
heavens, Mass! I never once suspected you of that! 
Are you a holy Roman?” 

“Not holy; just a Roman,” Cis corrected him. 
“Neither did I suspect you of prejudices, of mind¬ 
ing what I was. I used to miss Mass once in a 
while, but I knew better, and when I came away 
I promised Nan I’d go every Sunday, unless I posi¬ 
tively could not go. I don’t bother much with re¬ 
ligion, but I keep inside the Church, sort of on 
the last step, in the vestibule!” 

“Cut it out, Cicely!” cried Rodney. “Drop the 
thing. You aren't the girl to let stuff that no one 
knows a thing about get hold of you. It’s silly to 
hang on to a chimera, and it’s dishonest, cowardly 
to be afraid to chuck it. Make a break right here, 
Cis, and come with me early next Sunday morning. 

I used to learn catechism myself; Fve learned now 
that no one has any right to try to teach it. Chuck 
that nonsense, brave, free, honest Cis; believe me. 
you’d better! And it only means being honest with 
yourself; if you believed in it, you’d never hang 
around that last step of yours. 


120 


THE CABLE 


Cicely looked at him gravely, with troubled eyes. 
Then she said slowly: 

“I’ve often thought exactly what you say, Rod; 
I’m afraid I’m not honest. Then again I think I 
am honest in trying to keep hold. You know 
there’s something in the Gospel about there being 
virtue in the hem of the garment; I don’t like to 
drop the wee edge I’m holding. It’s something 
like the code, you know, Rodney dear; I can’t 
learn it easily, but Fd never think of giving it away 
—don’t you see?” 

“Cis, Cis, Cis, drop it! It’s a danger; it’s your 
enemy, it’s my enemy! That horrible system will 
wreck your life! Cis, for my sake, in pity say 
you’ll come with me on Sunday, and cut out the 
Mass! Cis, it’s a test, Cis; you must come! Cis, 
Cis, for my sake?” Rodney spoke quite wildly, 
crushing her hands in his. 

Cis looked at him, frightened, and then a great 
tenderness flooded her face, a look that it had never 
worn before. 

“All that isn’t true, Rod; it is sheer nonsense, but 
one Sunday can’t matter. I’ll go with you, if you 
care so much to have me,” she said gently. Then 
as if a new fear came upon her, she added: “Dear 
old pal of mine!” hiding behind a phrase. 


CHAPTER VIII 


CABLE STRANDS 

rpHAT night Cis took the pins out of her hair 
and let it fall around her, like a screen of 
molten metal which miraculously could envelop 
and not sere her. It shone above her white petti¬ 
coat and over her bare arms and shoulders so re¬ 
splendent that it was a pity that there was none 
to see it, though Cis felt no such regret. She did 
not consciously see herself as she stood before her 
mirror, letting down her Briinhilde-like tresses; 
her mind was filled with other thoughts, and she 
turned from the glass to switch off the electric light 
the better to follow out these thoughts and their 
conclusions. 

She went over to the window and seated herself 
in a low chair, her right foot boyishly resting on 
her left knee that she might easily remove its shoe, 
but having removed it she absent-mindedly let it 
drop on the floor and stroked her silk-stockinged 
instep, forgetful that normally one takes off its 
mate when one shoe has been removed. 

Cis was reliving her outing with Rodney that 
afternoon; it gave her food for new and serious 
thought. Rodney had definite and adverse views 
in regard to religion from her views and, appar¬ 
ently, he was especially adverse to hers, to the Old 

121 


122 


THE CABLE 


Faith. This surprised her. She had thought of 
him as indifferent, with an indifference not greatly 
unlike her own, the difference being that she was 
indifferent within her faith, while he was indif¬ 
ferent outside of any faith; the difference between 
two persons without an appetite, one seated at a 
table, the other resting in an ante-room. Yet this 
was an exaggeration of the situation as she had 
previously conceived it. Cis meant to keep her 
Faith, somewhat as one keeps a valuable piece of 
lace, not letting it get lost, but not often getting it 
out of its storage drawer. Rod, however, had 
pleaded with her, speaking with impassioned ear¬ 
nestness, not to adhere to the Church, to cast it 
off as a shackle. She had been amazed to find that 
he cared, violently desired to get her to drop out 
of her Church. Why did he? What difference 
could it make to him that she held to it, provided 
that it did not get in the way of their friendship? 
If she bothered him with it, tried to convince him 
of its truth, let it come between them in any way, 
behaved about it as Nan would, for instance, Rod 
might justly consider it a nuisance, but as it was, 
why did he mind? He had said that he had once 
learned catechism. What catechism? Episcopa¬ 
lian? Cis thought that Lutherans, and Presbyter¬ 
ians also, had a catechism, but she was not con¬ 
versant with the ways of the Protestant sects. It 
could not have been the Catholic catechism? In 
that case Rod himself had once been to Mass, had 
probably been instructed and received the Sacra¬ 
ments as she had. But this was not likely; Cis 


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did not believe that G. Rodney Moore had ever 
been within the Church. Perhaps poor Cis found 
it hard to believe that anyone who had ever been 
actually within her could ever be actually outside 
of her. 

She had promised Rod to go with him out into 
the country early on Sunday morning, to do which 
she would omit Mass. A mortal sin? That was 
what she had been taught, but she had missed Mass 
before, for less cause. Poor Rod! He had so 
eagerly begged her to do this for him! He showed 
such intense feeling about it; it seemed to matter 
to him beyond the intrinsic importance of taking 
that special train, going to that particular place on 
this coming Sunday. Again: why? But how could 
it be a mortal sin to gratify the dear fellow? She was 
not going to give up the Church, of course, but it 
did go rather far in some things, notably in the 
matter of turning meat-eating on forbidden days, 
and Mass-omission on commanded days into a mor¬ 
tal sin. She intended to remain a Catholic, but it 
could hardly be that missing Mass deliberately on 
a Sunday would shut one out of heaven if she 
died that night unshriven, uncontrite. She hated 
to break her promise to Nan for the first time; 
she would write Nan in the morning and tell her 
that she should not be at Mass on Sunday, but not 
to mind; she would go other Sundays. It was fair 
to let Nan know that she was breaking her promise; 
letting her know seemed to lessen the breach of 
faith with nice Nannie. She must also hasten 
to advise her to marry Joe Hamilton. Funny little 


124 


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Nannie! As though she would not marry him any¬ 
way! Nan was fond of him, Cis was sure of that, 
fond enough of him to predict the marriage happy, 
but Cis thought that she might have been equally 
fond of another nice boy; Joe was a nice boy. It 
was all right for Nannie; Cis recognized in her 
the woman whose children would be the absorb¬ 
ing devotion of her life, her husband would be 
sure to drift pleasantly into second place. It was 
all right for Nan, but it would not do for Cis! 
If ever she married it would be a man whose pres¬ 
ence blinded her to all other creatures; whose life 
and death included her own; she would worship 
him, live for him, breathe in him, count nothing 
costly that contributed to his welfare, even to 
his pleasure. She would be good to her child¬ 
ren, love them, look after them to the best 
of her ability, but—weigh them in the scale 
with her husband? Preposterous! She would 
be first of all what Eve was to Adam, his 
mate superaboundingly. Why had that hand¬ 
some, bad-tempered Davenport girl acted as she 
had acted? She wanted Rod. Why did she? 
Cis felt a fierce sort of fury toward her, and 
clutched Rod in her thoughts; she gloated over him 
and over the thought that the Davenport girl could 
not take him from her. She had never before been 
dominated for even an instant by an unreasoning, 
overpowering hatred for a person, as if she would 
cut her down as she stood, if she moved hand or 
foot upon her preserves. Her preserves! What 
did it mean? Jealous? But what did that mean? 


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125 


Of all things, what did that mean? She, free, 
frank, comradely Cis Adair, whom all the boys had 
liked, who had liked them all in return, whose 
pulses had never quickened at the thought or sight 
of any one of them, much less her heart contracted 
as hers did now in thinking of this. 

Cis was not stupid; she knew what it meant. 
With a great wave of terror, of resistance, of joy, 
of triumph, of profound humility, she laid her 
head down on her bare white arms, folded on the 
window sill, and her splendid red hair fell over 
her as the outward symbol of the royal garment 
which she had donned, the vestment of her woman¬ 
hood. For Cicely knew that she had come into 
the kingdom of her own self, her life’s crisis. Never 
again should she be the old careless, free, light¬ 
hearted Cis. A loss, perhaps, but at what a gain! 
She lifted her face, wet as the light of the street 
electricity fell upon it, and pushed back her masses 
of red gold hair from her hot cheeks. 

“Miss Mass for him! Yes, oh, yes! I’d lose my 
soul for him, if it would make him happy!” she 
cried aloud, rising to her full height and stretching 
her arms upward with a royal gesture, as though 
she at once renounced and received. 

Cis arose early the next morning to carry out her 
intention to write to Nan. She wrote rapidly, at 
gossipy length, on a writing case resting on her 
knee, seated at the window where she had sat long 
on the night before. 

She told Nan all about events in the office; her 
struggles with the code; about women boarding at 


126 


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Mrs. Wallace’s, whose idiosyncrasies she touched off 
to the life, with merry ridicule which was keen, yet 
not unkind. Only at the end of the letter she 
turned serious. “Nannie, dear,” she wrote, “of 
course I say marry Joe, though I’m mean enough 
to be a little sorry to let you marry anyone. If 
you love him, that is all. You must love him, or 
you would not consider it at all. He is a lucky 
fellow, but he is all right himself. You have my 
blessing. It is everything to love someone with 
all your heart, but if he loves you, too—Oh, 
Nannie, you are in luck, my dear! Though I 
should think a great, tearing love would always be 
returned; simply melt the other one. I’d never 
hesitate over anything if I loved a man—you silly 
little thing! I’ll see you some day, before you’re 
married, I hope. By the way, speaking of nuptial 
Masses, I’m going to cut church next Sunday; 
wanted to tell you I’m breaking my promise this 
once. I’ve got a fine pal here—I told you about 
him—he wants me to do something; go off too 
early Sunday morning to get in Mass, too, and he 
wants it so badly that it’s right to give him the 
happiness. I’d do more than that to make him 
happy. I don’t suppose it really is a damning sin 
to miss Mass, but I guess I’d go to hell, if it would 
make things easier for him. So now you can see 
how I feel about this pal o’ mine! There was one 
of him made, and then the mold was broken! I’m 
happy, but I’m not at all sure he’d go as far as 
purgatory for me. Your loving Cis.” 





THE GABLE 


127 


Cis read her letter over with her cheeks aflame, 
her eyes wet, her breath short. 

“Well, she won’t show the letter, that’s one thing 
sure, and I never could see why it is anything to 
be ashamed of that you love someone like mad! 
You can’t begin to love a man the instant he asks 
you to! Nan will say: 6 She’s still honest Cis, that’s 
one sure thing!’ Poor little mouse; she’ll worry 
her head off; probably think he’s a Jew with a 
Galvinistic mother, or something!” 

The hours that must pass before that early train 
started from Beaconhite on Sunday morning sped 
fast for Cis, in spite of her eagerness for the time 
to come. The feeble undercurrent of regret for 
her choice of man instead of God, for her broken 
promise to Nan, she stifled; indeed it hardly needed 
her attention, so eager was she now for a whole day 
with Rodney, so sure that he was going to take her 
into pleasant and beautiful places, show her how 
to grow ever happier with him. 

She arose much earlier than was necessary, 
dressed carefully in the golden brown tailored suit, 
with its accompanying smart, small hat of golden 
brown beaver, a bright wing of henna-orange laid 
on its brim its sole trimming, the new suit which 
was her pride and which Rod had said made her 
look “like the twin sister of Phoebus Apollo.” 

Cis went out of the house and ate a hasty break¬ 
fast at a restaurant because she was leaving before 
Mrs. Wallace’s regular breakfast hour. She hur¬ 
ried so fast that she had considerable spare time 


128 


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on her hands and walked to the station to fill it 
in; Rod had asked her to meet him there because 
there was risk of missing their train if he came to 
fetch her from her boarding place. 

Cis was surprised to see that there was a look of 
relief, as well as great joy on his face when she 
appeared; he was already waiting for her. 

“Ah, my Autumn Maiden!” he cried, seizing her 
hand tightly. “I don’t know why, because you’re 
a girl of your word, but somehow I was afraid 
you’d get cold feet at the last minute and not turn 
up! Awful glad you didn’t. Holly! You’re a 
Maple Tree Symphony in that rig! My, but you’re 
stunning, Holly!” 

“Nonsense, Rod! As though I didn’t know I 
wasn’t pretty!” cried Cis, her whole face spilling 
over rapture. 

“Pretty? Perhaps not; I said stunning! You 
don’t give a fellow time to consider whether you’re 
pretty or not,” rejoined Rodney. “You’re mighty 
easy to look at! No, you’re not, by jiminy! It’s 
hard afterward, anyway!” 

“If you talk stuff to me, Rory O’Moore, I’ll turn 
around and go home,” cried Cis. 

“Then I won’t, not till the train gets to pulling 
fast! Had anything to eat? It’s a beastly time to 
ask you to turn out, but I’m not regulating this 
railroad!” Rodney said. 

“Had my breakfast outside, not to bother Mrs. 
Wallace,” Cis told him. “Ate oodles.” 

“Doubt it. Never can trust a girl to feed her¬ 
self when she’s got anything better to do,” Rod 


THE CABLE 


129 


corrected her. “I’ve provender in that basket you 
see at my feet; some pretty nifty sandwiches, fruit, 
candy, iced coffee, in a cold thermos. It will hold 
you alive till we get dinner. We’ll have one din¬ 
ner, that I promise you! Ever hear of Pioneer 
Falls? They’re seventy miles from here, through 
as pretty a country as you’d ask for, and the falls 
are as good as they’re advertised to be. But the 
main consideration is that there’s a hotel there 
which sets up the best dinner I ever ate anywhere, 
and let me tell you I’ve knocked around some, and 
I’m a connoozer of food! So don’t you worry. 
Holly, that you’ll wither and fade away in my 
hands!” 

“Not a worry, Rod! I’m not afraid of what will 
happen to me in your hands,” Cis assured him 
with a gay little laugh, but her eyes expressed some¬ 
thing remote from laughter. 

“By all that’s truthful, Cicely, if anything un¬ 
happy, or unfortunate ever came to you at my 
hands it would be because you would not let my 
hands work freely for your good,” Rodney said, 
with such emphasis that Cis looked startled, but 
he immediately added: “Our train’s made up. 
Holly: Let’s get our places; better than standing 
here.” 

He led her through the gates, his tickets ready 
in hand; selected seats on the shaded side, luckily 
the one which gave the better view of the country 
which they were to traverse; arranged her coat on 
a hook; had the porter bring a footstool to lay be¬ 
fore her chair; settled himself; swung his own chair 


130 


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full in front of hers and sank back to gaze at her 
with eyes which needed no tongue to interpret 
them. 

Cis knew that the intimacy of this early journey, 
with all the world excluded from their conscious¬ 
ness, with its inevitable suggestion of other jour¬ 
neys, always together, especially of one other jour¬ 
ney which this almost might be, so fast, so bliss¬ 
fully her heart was beating, Cis knew that it was 
to Rodney, as to herself, a new rapture, poignant, 
almost unbearably delicious in its present, and in 
its future promise. She knew as well as if he had 
spoken, that Rodney Moore loved her and intended 
to tell her so; to ask her to go with him on all 
his ways till death. 

She realized that this day was to be filled to 
overflowing with that tremulous, delicate bliss 
which preludes those unspoken words, when both 
man and woman know that they are to be spoken 
and how they will be answered, a bliss that almost 
surpasses the joy of full possession, as anticipation 
always must surpass fulfilment, the mystery of 
dawn be lovelier than the full noontide. 

“Shall we go to Niagara instead, Holly?” asked 
Rodney, bending toward her. 

“No, indeed! I would rather see Pioneer Falls! 
Niagara is too big,” Cis said quickly, catching the 
significance of his allusion to the conventional 
bridal-tour point, resolved to keep this day under 
the glamor of what was to follow it, not to let him 
speak yet. “Besides, I couldn’t get to the office 
at nine-thirty from Niagara! Rod, I haven’t seen 


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131 


you to tell you! The code straightened out for 
me yesterday, just as I knew it would, suddenly, 
sometime! I’ve got the horrid thing so it will eat 
out of my hand!” 

“Good for you! You’re a great one, Holly 
dear!” Rodney answered, settling back into his 
chair, following her lead. 

The train took them through beautiful scenes 
of farmland, valleys and hills, beside a peaceful 
river, through small forests, everything, everywhere 
glowing with October colors, “like Cis,” as Rodney 
said. Neither Rodney nor Cis were inclined to 
talk; it was too beautiful for comment, too sacred 
for small talk, this lovely setting of their romance, 
also rapidly nearing its destination. 

Pioneer Falls was the name of the station. Rod¬ 
ney picked up his basket and preceded Cis to a 
small motor car, billeted: “For hire,” which took 
them to the falls. 

Here they climbed steep paths, and descended 
long, narrow steps, to see the falls from above and 
below, hushed by the wild and solemn beauty of 
their setting, chilled by the evaporation of their 
heavy waters, the dense shade of their surround¬ 
ing pines and hemlocks. 

“It’s not half-bad to get into a dining room after 
all that, is it, Holly?” asked Rodney when they had 
seated themselves at a small table tete-a-tete, and 
the waiter had withdrawn, after sending Cis’s blood 
to her hair by asking whether “Madame would take 
lettuce, endive, or salade Romaine?” 

“It’s not the smallest fraction bad, Rod,” re- 


132 


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plied Cis, grateful to him for not taking advantage 
of the waiter’s mistake. “And I’m ravenous in 
6pite of your lunch!” 

Over the demi-tasse at the end of dinner Rod¬ 
ney lighted a cigarette and smoked silently, scru¬ 
tinizing Cis. 

“What?” she asked him, looking up to catch his 
gaze. 

“I was wondering if you didn’t think that it had 
been better, wiser, more natural, after all, to come 
off with me, when we like so much to be together, 
without going to church? Don’t you honestly 
think, little Holly-Cis, that we hallow this day?” 
he promptly answered. 

“Well, Rod, I’ve been perfectly happy,” Cis 
answered. “I suppose, maybe, once in a way—” 
She stopped. “Funny you brought that up,” she 
went on. “I’ve been thinking ever since that day 
of what you said. What catechism was it, Rod, 
that you studied? What are you?” 

“The penny catechism, my dear; Third Plenary 
Council of Baltimore, I believe they said it was. 
Who made you, et cetera,” replied Rodney. 

“Catholic? Are you a Catholic?” cried Cis. 

“Now, Holly, do I look it, or act it?” demanded 
Rodney. “No, my dear; I’m nothing, but they did 
start me on the same catechism you had; my people 
are all Catholics.” 

“Left the Church?” Cis looked startled. 

“You funny child! When you don’t care tup¬ 
pence about it!” Rodney laughed at her. 

“I dropped it; that’s better said. I don’t be- 


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133 


lieve in it. They tried to control me in matters 
of my personal rights as a man. They would in¬ 
terfere with me now if they could. They will 
with you, if you let ’em. They’ll ruin your life, 
my Cicely. All wrong, all wrong! I want you to 
drop it, too. Cicely, believe me, it will warp you, 
destroy your God-given instincts and desires; ruin 
your life, Cis! I am free now to do as seems good 
to me; I want you to be free with me. I believe 
there’s a God, though I never heard anyone prove 
it who tried to, but I believe it. You keep your 
faith in Him, if you want to, but drop this Church 
business, with its laws. Cicely, I am afraid, afraid , 
I tell you, to think of your sticking blindly to all 
that! Let it go. You needn’t abjure it, do any¬ 
thing formal, but let it go. Go around to lectures, 
Sundays, or, what’s better, come with me out into 
clean, still places and we’ll read the poets and phil¬ 
osophers, and have music—I play the violin fairly 
well. Holly, dear; you haven’t heard me—yet! 
Drop it, Cis, for both our sakes, I beg of you! 
This is one of the things I brought you here to-day 
to say. I’ve studied; I know the thing from top 
to bottom. Nonsense!” 

44 Why do you care so much, Rod? You look 
half wild when you speak of it. Why do you care? 
What difference would it make to you if I kept 
on in my half-way Catholicity?” Cis asked more 
puzzled than impressed by his plea. 

44 Why do I care?” Rodney burst out, then 
checked himself. 44 0h, Cicely, because it separates 
us! Child, you don’t know; I do! As sure as the 




134 


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sun rises and sets it will break your heart and 
plunge me into wretchedness and despair if you 
continue, even in your half-way, as you call it. 
There is no half-way. Either you are a Roman 
Catholic, or you’re not. You may be a cold one, 
or a hot one, but one you are, unless you drop it 
wholly. It is a barrier between us.” 

“Rod, what foolishness!” cried Cis. “We shall 
be—friends—whether I’m in or out of the Church. 
Am I narrow-minded; are you? And if I were 
good you might come back!” 

“Not I! Never!” cried Rodney. “Cis, my Holly, 
my bright, hope-giving, joy-giving Christmas Holly, 
you’ve done for me what I never thought could be 
done! I was wretched, and you have healed me. 
Will you plunge me down again?” 

“No, Rod; I couldn’t do that,” Cis said simply, 
softly. “I don’t see how being a Catholic could 
do that, but if it did—” 

“You’d give it up?” Rodney eagerly interrupted 
her. 

“I don’t say that,” Cis spoke with slow consider¬ 
ation, weighing her words. “I don’t see how I’d 
ever be able—But I couldn’t hurt you either. Rod! 
Can't it just go on? I’m not one bit pious; I don’t 

see how it could bother vou if I went to Mass 

* 

Sundays, and once in a long while to confession?” 

Rodney looked at her long without speaking. 

It’s up to me, I see,” he said at last, and Cis ac¬ 
cepted what seemed to be a concession to her, al¬ 
though she had no conception of its terms. 

And then there happened one of those trifling 




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135 


things which so often sway human decisions and 
actions. Two shabby, dirty little Italians had been 
looking in at the door, unnoticed by Rodney and 
Cis. Now there came the landlord, blustering, to 
chase them away with harsh words, and the chil¬ 
dren turned to go, the little girl bursting into fright¬ 
ened tears, the boy muttering something, helplessly 
fierce. 

i 

Instantly Rodney sprang up and hurried to the 
door. 

“Here, come back here! Wait!” he cried. 

He turned to the landlord. “What harm were 
the little scraps doing? They may be hungry. 
Get them a half a pie apiece, and a lot of cake, 
and nuts, chestnuts! They’d be sure to like chest¬ 
nuts! And coffee, big cups, plenty of milk and 
sugar, and some oranges, and put it on my bill, ’ 
he ordered. 

“I won’t have dirty children in here,” cried the 
landlord. 

“Dirty! Dirty! Weren’t you ever dirty when 
you were a small boy? But who asked you to 
have them in here? There’s room outside on the 
grass. Good gracious, you have enough left over 
every meal to feed half a dozen kids. Set ’em 
up on me!” Rodney ordered impatiently, and soon 
he and Cis had the satisfaction of seeing each child 
blissfully struggling to circumvent the contents of 
the juicy half of an apple pie from attaining its 
release, backward from the crust, as it was deeply 
bitten. 

It was a small thing, yet it set Cicely’s heart 


136 


THE CABLE 


glowing with tender, admiring love for this big- 
hearted, gallant Rodney, who flew to the rescue of 
the helpless, and gave food and happiness to God’s 
little ones. Illogically, it seemed to prove Rod 
right in saying that the Church and fidelity to it 
did not matter. Had he not left it, and yet he 
shared with beggars, like a modern version of St. 
Martin of Tours? 

“You are great. Rod!” Cis said proudly as she 
stood with her eyes on the children outside the 
window, and Rod, helping her on with her coat, 
watched them also, over her shoulder. 

He had an uncanny way of reading her thoughts. 
Now he whispered into her ear, though there was 
no one near to hear: 

“You may give up the practices of religion, yet 
not give up true religion, my Holly! I’m not all 
bad, though I don’t confess my sins!” 


CHAPTER IX 


ATALANTA’S PAUSE 

ar THE only defect in this sort of a day is that it 

A has to end so early. It makes things seem 
thin and flat to pick up and start back on a train 
leaving a few minutes past three,” grumbled Rod¬ 
ney, putting Cis into her car chair and bestowing 
himself opposite to her, as they had come up to 
Pioneer Falls. 

“Oh, no, it doesn’t!” Cis contradicted him 
happily. “Don’t be greedy, Rory! Greedy and 
ungrateful. Think what a beautiful day, and— 
four, six, ten—it will be more than ten hours long 
by the time we get home!” 

“Ungrateful I’m not; but greedy? Well, why 
shouldn’t I be? Hungry people are greedy, es¬ 
pecially for the kind of food that best nourishes 
them. Philosophy is all very well, but it’s not 
always a satisfactory symptom! Don’t you be too 
easily satisfied, Miss Holly Adair! One day 
couldn’t satisfy me; it whets my appetite!” Rod¬ 
ney’s eyes were literally devouring, his voice sharp. 

“Oh, well, Rod!” Cis said softly. “I’m not ex¬ 
actly easy-going. One day at a time! They sing 
a silly hymn at church, all about not praying for 
anything, not even to be good, except 4 just for to- 

137 



138 


THE CABLE 


day,’ when of course we’re saying all the time: 
‘Now, and at the hour of our death,’ and we’re 
made to pray for final perseverance! But 6 just for 
to-day’ comes in all right now; this is our day, 
and a pretty nice one! I’ve been happy all day 
long, and we’re still happy, with two hours and 
a half ahead, and I love to ride on the train. A 
whole day happy is a big thing!” 

“Cis, you speak as if you were afraid! There 
are years of happy days ahead, my girl! When I 
first knew you, Holly dear, I thought I’d never seen 
a creature who had passed the twenty-first birth¬ 
day, who was so absolutely without a thought of 
the morrow as you were.” Rodney looked at Cis 
questioningly. 

“Ah! When you first knew me!” Cis breathed 
the words so softly that Rodney leaned forward 
to catch them. “I’m changing fast, Rod; I have 
changed; I’m getting tamed. Happiness scares you 
when you know you’re happy. Before I came here 
I was happy, hut it was the way kids are happy. 
I didn’t know I was happy; just went along as if 
I was a boy, whistling. Now—I think about it.” 
Cis pulled herself up short, then she added: “They 
tell you that life isn’t particularly happy when you 
get well into it, that happiness is not meant to last. 
I suppose what everybody says is true; how can I 
help being afraid? But it’s a queer thing: I’m 
happier when I’m afraid than I was when I wasn’t 
afraid one bit!” 

Rodney smiled on her, well-content with her 
unconscious revelations, or was it that Cis was so 



THE CABLE 


139 


trusting, so honest that she was conscious of re¬ 
vealing, yet did not mind it? 

“Do you believe that you will not be happy. 
Holly dear? That we shall not be happy? Do you 
believe all these croakers who try to make you 
think life is a dismal thing, and all true happiness 
is beyond the grave? That’s religion’s talk! Don’t 
you heed it. Of course no clock strikes twelve 
every hour, but you’ll see what bliss life holds, and 
that we’ll keep tight grasp on it, provided you steer 
straight. Why, little kid Cicely, you’ve no more 
notion of what bliss is ahead of you than a small 
brown bunny out in those woods yonder! Believe 
me, you glowing, gorgeous-tinted Holly, you will 
laugh at your fears when you get over the drunk¬ 
enness of the joy you’re going to have!” Rodney 
smiled at Cis with flashing eyes. 

Cis smiled back at him, her breath a little short, 
but her candid eyes looked into his unafraid. 
Whatever Cis feared or dreaded, it was nothing 
within the compass of Rodney’s control; to him 
she trusted herself completely. 

She leaned back in her chair, her hat in her 
lap, luxuriously rumpling her hair by rolling her 
head slightly on the chair’s plush back. Her face 
grew grave and sweet as her thoughts travelled on¬ 
ward from Rodney’s promise of lasting happiness 
to her own conviction that sorrow must come. It 
did not matter greatly as long as fundamentals held. 
Rodney’s * 6 we” destroyed fear. Womanlike, she 
felt that sorrow that was shared would in itself 
hold a sweeter joy than happiness; that if she could 


140 


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lighten a burden for Rod there would be no weight 
in the heaviest burden upon herself. The pre¬ 
science of the woman showed Cis the profound 
meaning of a true marriage; not, first in impor¬ 
tance, to be happy together, but to learn to be 
happy in being unhappy together. 

“Cis, I did not know that you could look like 
that!” cried Rodney suddenly. They had been 
silent for a little space, and he was watching Cis’s 
changing expression with awe and wonder, unable 
to follow her mental processes, yet guessing their 
course. 

“You look at me so strangely, yet as if you 
hardly saw me.” 

“I see you. Rod, but farther than in that Pull¬ 
man chair. How did I look at you?” Cis asked. 

“As if I were a baby, or a bird with a broken 
wing; I know you’d look like that at either of those 
things!” Rodney answered slowly. 

“I was thinking,” she said simply. “Then, after¬ 
ward, I was thinking how dear and good you were 
to those forlorn children, and how fine it was to 
be good like that, yet strong and brave, and what 
a lovely day you’d made for me, too!” 

“Sweet Cicely! I don’t believe that you’ve the 
least suspicion of your own value!” Rodney cried, 
sincerely moved by her humility, which was less 
humility than the lack of all self-seeing. 

He lay back, still watching her, while she looked 
dreamily out of the window at the flaming trees 
rushing past them in units of beauty, massed into 
a splendid whole. He was thinking: “She has 


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141 


been utterly content and happy the livelong day! 
She will soon get around to thinking that the day 
was complete, and completely innocent, without 
Mass; I’ll have no trouble turning her away and 
holding her fast!” 

Rodney had a strong reason for wanting to get 
Cicely to drop her Church, as he had done; he 
was delighted to believe that there would be no 
obstacle before him there. But Rodney was wrong 
in thinking that Cicely was tending toward easy 
weaning from it. She was remembering that she 
had deliberately stayed away from Mass that morn¬ 
ing in order to gratify Rodney; she was determin¬ 
ing that she would not do so again. Hitherto she 
had not felt any more longing for God than had 
one of His young four-footed creatures; she had 
played in His sight, innocently as to the actions 
condemned by man, careless of His service. She 
had made her First Communion with awe and 
faith to a degree, but without the enkindling of her 
soul. It did not mean much to her, although she 
would have answered correctly any question in the 
catechism relating to the two sacraments for which 
she had then been prepared. She had no mother, 
no one to whom her approach to her God mattered 
vitally, as it must to a mother whose twofold love 
for her God and her child breathlessly watches 
their compounding. Cis had gone on through her 
brief years to the present, sound in mind and body, 
wholesome and true, but with not much more 
spirituality than a kitten. Now she began to grope 
for God, afar, dimly; she wanted to find Him to 


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give Him to Rodney. For Rodney she wanted the 
best. Like Portia, she began to reach out after 
greater values with which to deck herself that she 
might stand high in his regard, be fit thus to stand. 
And she took her first, actually seeking steps to¬ 
ward God to find Him, the one, all-embracing God 
in order to give Him to Rodney. Rod had drifted 
away; he was not like her; he had deliberately 
turned from his Church. Well, she had heard of 
a woman, a saint—her name was something that 
sounded like Money—who had brought her son 
into heaven. Surely! St. Augustine, it was, and 
his mother, Monica! She, Cis Adair, was by no 
means a saint, but she might do that, too, if Rod¬ 
ney loved her well enough. And he did love her! 
How he looked at her, with eyes that made her 
own drop and her cheeks flush, and then with such 
gentle tenderness that she could weep. He was not 
going to tell her to-day that he loved her; she was 
glad of that; she would like to hold off that rev¬ 
elation in spoken words a little longer. It was so 
beautiful to look up and surprise its revelation 
in his handsome, dear face, and pretend to her¬ 
self that she had not been sure that she should 
see it there! She was a bad girl to have indulged 
him by omitting Mass that day, yet how happy it 
had made him, and how happy it made her to 
make him happy! Perhaps it was not so bad, just 
this one time! After this she would keep to Mass 
faithfully and coax Rodney there with her. Cur¬ 
ious that the Beaconhite church where she went, 
the one nearest to her boarding place, had no Sun- 


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day Mass before eight! She thought there were 
always earlier Masses. It was partly the fault of 
St. Francis Xavier’s church that she missed Mass 
to-day; if there had been one at six she could have 
heard it before she took the train. She did not 
push herself to state in her thoughts whether she 
was entirely sure that she should have done so. 

“You have not spoken for a half hour. Holly!” 
Rodney rebuked Cis at last. “What are you think¬ 
ing about? We’re getting into Beaconhite, and 
you’re cheating me!” 

“Thinking—thinking—Oh, about something like 
the suffrage; woman’s influence!” cried Cis arous¬ 
ing, puzzled at first how to answer, then answering 
with laughter in her eyes, her one dimple playing 
just beyond the deep, sweet corner of her lips. 

“Great trick not to be precisely a pretty girl, yet 
look so much better than pretty ones, Holly!” cried 
Rodney involuntarily, remembering Gertrude 
Davenport and her tiresome perfection of beauty. 

“Let’s walk to the house, Rod,” suggested Cis, 
when they came out of the station into Beaconhite’s 
main street. 

“Let’s walk to the restaurant first of all!” Rod¬ 
ney amended her proposal. “I’ve no notion of be¬ 
ing conveyed to the hospital on an ambulance call, 
perishing in the street from inanition!” 

Accordingly they walked briskly toward the 
small hotel in a cross street, several blocks from the 
station, where, Rodney affirmed, “there was the 
most decent chef in Beaconhite.” 

They came upon a block where there had been 


144 


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a fire; cordons were stretched across the sidewalk, 
into the road; within them a blackened mass of 
still smoking debris was all that was left of what 
that morning had been a block of small houses, 
each house divided into four- and five-room tene¬ 
ments at low rentals. Just as Cis and Rodney came 
up there emerged from the side street, evidently 
coming around from the rear of the burned block, 
a tall, thin figure in a long black coat; Cis instantly 
recognized Father Morley, and as quickly he recog¬ 
nized her, at least for one whom he had been seeing 
at the eight o’clock Mass. He possessed the natural 
gift of retaining faces in his memory, a gift height¬ 
ened to the highest degree by the training of his 
Order, and his intense interest in the soul behind 
each face. 

Cis, meeting his deep-set, keen, gentle eyes, 
bowed instinctively. The priest instantly returned 
the bow with a smile that lit up his ascetic face as 
if a light had been thrown upon it, but in this case 
the light came from within, outward. 

The Jesuit stepped up to Cis’s side, taking it for 
granted that he was welcome. 

“Good evening, my child," 1 he said, and his voice, 
which always thrilled Cis when he preached his five 
minutes’ sermon from the sanctuary, was still more 
moving heard in conversational tones at her elbow. 
She saw, too, that his face, thin, ascetic, worn, as 
she had seen it at the distance intervening between 
the church pews and the sanctuary, was more 
deeply graved with fine lines than she had seen; 


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145 


he looked like a man who had found life a serious 
matter, and whose bodily health was not the best. 

“Good evening. Father Morley,” Cis replied. 

“I do not know your name, but I know that you 
belong to me,” said Father Morley. “I am sure 
that I have not met you. I see you at my Mass, at 
eight o’clock. Have you been long in Beaconhite?” 

“No, Father. I came early in the summer. My 
name is Cicely Adair; I am Mr. Lucas’ private 
secretary. You never have spoken to me before,” 
said Cis. “Father Morley, this is Mr. Rodney 
Moore.” 

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Moore,” said Father 
Morley with a quick, comprehensive look at Rod¬ 
ney. “English More, or Irish Moore?” 

“My people on the Moore side came from Ire¬ 
land,” said Rodney, uneasy, and omitting the cour¬ 
teous title at the end of his reply to Father Morley. 

“That’s good!” said the priest, as if Rodney de¬ 
served credit for his ancestry. “Though, to be 
sure, the English More once meant great things, 
when the lord chancelor bore the name who would 
not betray his God to save his head! Not that we 
would not all reckon martyrdom a splendid prize 
for which to hold out! You are in another parish, 
not St. Francis’? I don’t recall your face.” 

“I’m in the St. Francis Xavier parish,” said Rod¬ 
ney shortly. 

The fine face of the priest changed slightly as he 
correctly interpreted this answer. 

“I missed you this morning, Miss Adair,” he said. 


146 


THE GABLE 


“You know, a priest gets into the way of uncon¬ 
sciously looking for familiar faces when he turns to 
give the notices and read the Gospel; you are 
weekly in the same place. I am glad that you are 
not ill.” 

“No, Father,” replied honest Cis, making no 
excuse to gloss her absence. “I did not go to Mass; 
I wanted to take an early train.” 

“Good for her; coming straight out, no cring¬ 
ing!” thought Rodney, misinterpreting Cicely’s 
honesty. 

Father Morley shook his head. “And not make 
the effort required to go to six o’clock Mass first, 
or even to the Mass at two? It is worth consider¬ 
able effort to keep from offending God,” he said. 

“Six o’clock? The eight o’clock Mass is the first 
one, isn’t it?” cried Cis. 

“No, indeed! Who ever heard of such a late 
hour for the first parish Mass in such a large 
parish?” exclaimed Father Morley. “We have a 
Mass at two a. m. for the newspaper men and other 
night workers, trolley men, railroaders, all those 
people. The next Mass is at six. Then ours is not 
the only church in town! There are nine churches 
in Beaconhite, all told.” 

“Bad influence, danger ahead!” thought the wise 
priest. “I like the girl!” 

“I could have made the six o’clock at St. Francis 
Xavier’s; I might have asked if there was one, but 
I didn’t,” Cis looked straight into the priest’s keen 
eyes. “I’m a careless girl. Father; I never thought 


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147 


so much about these things as Nan—that’s my 
friend at home—did.” 

“Difficult to think too much of things which are 
unending,” commented the priest. “I approve of 
Nan and am glad that you have so good a girl 
friend.” 

He smiled, with a slight sigh, and walked onward 
in silence beside Rodney, taking it for granted that 
they would continue together as their ways lay in 
the same direction. Rodney was at once uncom¬ 
fortable and angry, angry that he was uncomfort¬ 
able. There was a silent power in this priest that 
he felt and resisted; it annoyed him to see that Cis 
felt it and did not resist it. It was impossible to 
say wherein it lay, but it was there, strong and as 
unmistakable as it was indefinable. That it was 
the manifestation of the sum total of the gifts of 
the Holy Ghost did not occur to him, nor would he 
have admitted it, but just as those recorded in the 
Gospel cried out against that Power to which they 
would not yield, so Rodney in his heart cried out 
against this quiet person, walking beside him unin- 
trusively, saying nothing remarkable, certainly 
nothing in direct rebuke. Yet every fibre of Rod¬ 
ney’s being rebelled, and he felt that Cis was 
accepting and readjusting to that implied reproach. 

“Must have been quite a fire,” Rodney said, try¬ 
ing to introduce a topic that was indifferent. 

“Indeed it was, a shocking fire,” Father Morley 
corroborated him. “It was a gasoline fire in a tene¬ 
ment; could anything be worse? The young 



148 


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daughter of one of the tenants was cleaning gloves, 
I understand, in a room which was dark, using a 
lighted lamp, and there was not much air in the 
stuffy place. She did not realize how far the fumes 
would draw to heat where there was so little oxy¬ 
gen. Not only that tenement burned, but the 
entire block. Most of these people had kerosene 
oil in cans. Ah, it was a frightful fire! The fire¬ 
men saved every life, but several people were badly 
burned, dangerously so, and a child was nearly 
trampled to death. One of the firemen was hurt; 
I came to anoint him and one or two others, but 
none will die—thank God!’’ 

“Well, I suppose Thank God’ is the conventional 
phrase, but it doesn’t always fit,” said Rodney with 
a bitter, short laugh. “I suppose, too, that all these 
people had palm in their houses, blessed especially 
for protection against fire, lightning and general 
violent catastrophe!” 

The Jesuit frowned slightly; Cis looked half 
amused, and he saw it. 

“ 4 Thank God’ is appropriate to whatever befalls 
those who trust in Him,” he said. “I would 
imagine the blessed palm was in those tenements, 
since, in spite of carelessness and ignorance, against 
which we cannot expect protection from their 
lighter consequences, no lives were lost. I am glad 
that you recognize the Providence that intervened, 
Mr. Moore; many people miss the province of its 
workings.” 

“I think that I recognize its province precisely, 
Father Morley,” Rodney said. “It is distinctly 



THE GABLE 


149 


limited. I would say that, if there be a God, He 
sets things going, and then leaves them to them¬ 
selves. I am not a Catholic, though my people 
were.” 

“I would hardly have mistaken you for a Cath¬ 
olic, my poor son,” said the priest quietly. 44 You 
have left the Church of your fathers? Better come 
to confession; remove the impediment to faith, and 
faith will revive. Strange to throw away that treas¬ 
ure to acquire which so many sacrifice everything 
earthly! My father, for instance, was an Episcopal 
clergyman. He came into the Church and suffered 
actual want, besides the cruel persecution which 
only near and dear kindred can inflict, in order to 
possess the Truth and the sacraments. But you 
are young and God’s arm is long; you will come 
back. A good friend can do a great deal for us!” 

The priest smiled at Cis, who looked up at him 
with a smile in return, yet a troubled look. 

44 A good friend can, Father, but lots of people 
don’t have good friends—like Nan!” she said, with 
emphasis on the adjective. 

44 All goodness is comparative, my child,” Father 
Morley said. 44 I see that you regret your own de¬ 
ficiencies, which is a most healthful symptom! It 
is everything to be honest, and more than every¬ 
thing to be humble!” He laughed at his inten¬ 
tional clumsiness of word. 44 It must be a little 
lonely for you, a stranger here? You say you are 
Mr. Lucas’ secretary? I know Mr. Lucas’ brother.” 

44 It was he who gave me my letter to Mr. Wilmer 
Lucas,” cried Cis eagerly. 


150 


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“Really? He is a noble man; I don’t wonder 
that Mr. Lucas welcomed you,” Father Morley 
looked pleased; he was beginning to feel cordial 
liking for Cis, with a perceptive anxiety for her 
safety. “I know Mr. Lucas, this Mr. Lucas, but he 
is not my friend, as his brother is.” 

Father Morley did not explain that he had in¬ 
structed Mr. Robert Lucas and received his sub¬ 
mission to the Church, and that this new instance 
of the Jesuit wiles had made Mr. Wilmer Lucas 
cross the street from that day to this whenever he 
saw Father Morley coming. 

“I have a club of fine girls, all self-supporting, 
a jolly, delightful lot, they are! How would you 
like to come to one of their ‘open nights’? That’s 
what they call the nights when outsiders are ad¬ 
mitted. You’d enjoy them, and they’d take you 
right in. No need of being lonely, my child! Let’s 
see: Thursday, Holy Hour; Friday the League; 
Monday night their private, members-only night; 
Wednesday! That’s it! Come on Wednesday, and 
see my fine girls!” Father Morley beamed at his 
triumphant conclusion. 

“Thank you, Father,” said Cis, and meant it. 
“I’m not lonely. I am happy in Beaconhite; I 
don’t have much spare time. But you are good to 
ask me.” 

“Not a bit good!” said the priest. “The club is 
for girls, isn’t it? And you are a girl, aren’t you? 
I turn off here. Good night. Good night, Mr. 
Moore.” 


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151 


He held out his hand and Rodney unwillingly 
took it. 

“God bless you, my poor lad,” said the priest 
gently. “Help and bless you.” 

He turned to Cis with great kindness, a sweet 
gravity, a steady look that told her that he fully 
understood her situation and recalled her to her 
duty with something of the infinite pity of God and 
His love for souls which grope. She knew that the 
priest saw that she loved Rodney, and that his 
prophecy of the outcome of that love would not 
accord with Rodney’s own forecast of her perfect 
bliss. 

Father Morley held out his hand and Cis put 
hers into it, lifting her eyes to the deep-set ones 
above her, which rested upon her as if they would 
draw her up through their light into the Highest 
Light. 

“Good-bye, my child. Remember that we hear 
confessions at St. Francis’ regularly on Fridays and 
Saturdays, afternoon and evening, and at any other 
time when we are called out, and that a mortal sin 
should not rest an hour upon the soul. Come to 
see me in the house; I should like to know you,” 
he said, ignoring Rodney, whose anger flamed into 
crimson in his cheeks and flashed in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Father Morley,” replied Cis, ill-at- 
ease, conscious of Rodney’s annoyance, devoutly 
wishing that “Father Morley wouldn’t,” yet re¬ 
sponding to his summons with a half perception of 
its value to her. “I shouldn’t know how to call on 


152 


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you; I never knew a priest, not that way. And 
I don’t get time, really.” 

“And you are not lonely now, and would rather 
not have an old Religious bother you, my dear? 
Very well; but remember that when you need him, 
Father Morley is waiting, and, when things get too 
hard to bear, or the strain is too strong for your 
young hands to hold back on the ropes, come to 
him and he will help your feebleness. Don’t for¬ 
get, Cicely Adair, that I shall be watching for you.*’ 

So saying, the Jesuit raised his hat with a cour¬ 
tesy that included both the young people, and went 
off down the side street with a long, striding gait, 
his hands thrust into his coat-sleeves, his shoulders 
bent forward like a man so accustomed to medita¬ 
tion that the instant that he was released from talk, 
from attention to the needs of others, he was off 
and away to other realms than this. 

“The old meddler!” exclaimed Rodnev. “Don’t 
you go near him, Cis! They’ll make you into one 
of their idiot women, crazy for novenas and church 
work, always lighting candles and trotting around 
to ask a priest whether roast pork really is indigest¬ 
ible, or whether all-wool flannels are better than 
half-wool, or whether it is a sin to use a mud worm 
for bait, because it looks like flesh, and the fish 
eats it, and we eat the fish on Friday! Idiots! I’d 
beat a woman, if she belonged to me, and got 
feeble-minded in that particular way!” 

Cicely moved slightly as if she were awaking; 
her eyes were fixed on Father Morley’s retreating 


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153 


figure; she had not heard Rodney’s diatribe against 
piousity. 

“He is good,” she murmured. “I feel as though 
the statue of St. Joseph in the church had been 
talking to me! He’s like that, like something that 
looks like a man, but is ’way beyond one. And he’s 
kind, like St. Joseph; he must have been kind! 
And he’s ready to do anything for you, but he never 

could be common human! I wish-” Cis 

checked herself. “Oh, Rod,” she said, turning to 
him with a flooding blush upon her face and clutch¬ 
ing his sleeve as if she feared to lose him, “Oh, 
Rory, dear, you are hungry; you said you were! 
Let’s get a supper for you; I’m not hungrier than a 
box-of-crackers supper!” 

“Crackers nothing!” growled Rodney, but he 
tucked Cis’s hand into his arm. “That restaurant 
is right around the corner. The old chap has half 
spoiled my appetite! Come along, though. Holly, 
and hang on to me; I’ll feed you well!” 



CHAPTER X 


PUBLIC FRANCHISE AND PRIVATE 

THRALDOM 

T^HERE was a matter of state and interstate, if 
not of national importance afoot, a lively 
correspondence in its regard flying between the 
Lucas and Henderson offices in Chicago, Washing¬ 
ton and Beaconhite. A franchise was in question 
which must pass, not only the legislatures of three 
states, but at last be established or annulled by the 
passage of a Congressional Act which would react 
upon the state legislatures’ decisions on the fran¬ 
chise, making it effective or practically without 
value. Energetic and clever lobbying to insure this 
franchise was vehemently carrying on in the cap¬ 
itals of the three states concerned, and at Washing¬ 
ton as well. Millions were at stake upon the issue; 
immense sums being spent for the passage of the 
bill; greater sums waiting those lucky stockholders 
who should profit by the enterprise when it was 
in working order, notably those who “got in on the 
ground floor,” who took up as much of the stock 
as was put out on the market for sale, at a price 
beyond which shares would rapidly soar once the 
inevitably profitable scheme was proved successful. 
There would not be much, or comparatively little 
of the stock offered upon the market; the corpora- 

154 


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155 


tion behind the enterprise was made up of solid 
men who could afford to wait for their future big 
percentage, secure to them if the thing went 
through. They did not purpose to let the general 
public share the chippings from the shell of their 
golden egg, except in numbers enough to forestall 
enmity to it on the ground of its being a private 
profit, maintained through public tolerance, via the 
Congress and legislatures. Correspondence in re¬ 
gard to this important matter passed in great bulk 
through Cicely’s hands; she was interested in it to 
the highest point. The newspapers were full of 
allusions to the franchise, opposing it, supporting 
it, according to their bias for or against the political 
party favoring the measure. It amazed inexperi¬ 
enced Cis to find that this was the basis of news¬ 
paper influence, never the abstract benefit or harm 
to the public at large, which seemed to her mind 
the only ground upon which to favor or oppose the 
franchise. 

Rodney laughed at her, and called her “Donna 
Quixote,” a name that Cicely liked because it was 
linked with tender mockery in Rodney’s eyes; she 
had never read “Don Quixote.” 

The correspondence in regard to the franchise 
which assailed Cicely’s desk in Mr. Wilmer Lucas’ 
office was couched in the code that had at first been 
such a stumbling block to her, but which she now 
read and wrote with complete fluency. It was ex¬ 
citingly pleasant to get inside information upon a 
subject that was occupying so much public atten¬ 
tion. 


156 


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4 T feel as biggity as Brer Rabbit to be so deep in 
the know!” she told Rodney. Therefore on the 
Monday morning after her Sunday spent at Pioneer 
Falls, Cicely started out for Lucas and Henderson’s 
office with her mind joyously attuned to anticipa¬ 
tion, the anticipation of an interesting day super¬ 
imposed upon the delicious certainty that Rodney 
loved her as well as she loved him, better perhaps, 
and that it was a matter of a few hours before she 
could be his promised wife. 

Perhaps she should have been that now, had they 
not met Father Morley the previous evening. The 
priest had intruded upon the perfect oneness of 
her comradeship with Rodney; he irritated Rod, 
and, though Father Morley impressed her as a 
saint, and attracted Cis herself powerfully, yet Rod 
said that priests 44 were good things to keep away 
from,” and if he felt so, then one could not expect 
him to find Father Morley’s inopportune intrusion 
upon them agreeable. 

But how beautiful had been Rodney’s manner 
to her, Cis thought, as, in the knowing little hotel 
to which he had taken her, he had ordered and 
pressed upon her delicious food for which she had 
slight appetite, yet of which she ate, coaxed into 
eating by the wondrous delicacies and Rodney’s 
ministrations to her. 

They had not talked upon disturbing subjects, 
pleasant or the reverse, but had chatted happily, in 
complete harmony, laughing over their own non¬ 
sense, telling each other new bits of confidences, 
those insignificant-significant trifles of past experi- 


THE CABLE 


157 


ence which, taken together, make up a mosaic of 
complete mutual knowledge. There was nothing 
for Cis to tell except school scrapes and triumphs, 
funny or piteous things which she had encountered 
on her short road so far through life; stories of 
people whom she had known, pleasures and annoy¬ 
ances ; her reactions toward them. They were 
simple tales to which Rodney harkened with pro¬ 
found interest, deriving from them an accurate 
estimate of this clean-minded, gallant Cis who 
loved him, as he saw; whom he meant to marry, 
and not Gertrude Davenport with her money, 
realizing that in Cis he had found the woman whose 
existence his experience had led him to doubt. 

In return for her confidences Rodney told Cis 
similar stories of his boyhood, of his merry college 
days, of victories which he had won on the fields 
of sport, and, later, in the field of business competi¬ 
tion. That there was much that Rodney did not 
tell her, honest Cis never suspected, still less that 
there was a side of his life, parallel with his ad¬ 
vancement in business, upon which he did not 
touch. She listened breathlessly to Rodney’s 
charming recitals, treasuring up his every word, 
so that it surprised him later to find how conversant 
she was with his boyhood and youth; proudly 
recognizing him as the cleverest and the best of 
lads whose present perfection had been clearly 
foreshown, missing nothing, because she looked for 
nothing beyond his revelations. 

The remembrance of these intimate confidences 
of the evening before, lay warm at her heart; the 


158 


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picture of the close-drawn crimson sash curtains in 
the leaded window beside them; the cream-white 
table, with its heavy cut work doilies; its delightful 
copper candlesticks, their parchment shades dec¬ 
orated by a skilled hand in Persian colors and de¬ 
signs, made a poetic background for her memories. 
Cis went out on Monday morning, whistling in her 
mind, her breath keeping up the air soundlessly 
against her motionless lips—Cis, the secretary, no 
longer whistled in the street as Cis, the telephone 
operator, would have done—and she almost ran 
into Miss Hannah Gallatin. 

“Good morning!” they cried together, as Cis 
swerved to avoid a collision. 

“I sort of hoped I’d meet you. Miss Adair; I had 
an idea you went out about this time,” Miss Gal¬ 
latin said, and added: “Mind if I walk along to 
talk to you?” 

“Glad to have you, Miss Gallatin,” Cis replied 
truthfully. “I’ve thought of you lots of times, and 
of how kind you were that morning when you asked 
me home with you, and advised me about boarding 
at Mrs. Wallace’s.” 

“But haven’t felt the need of a friend yet, so 
haven’t hunted me up, as I told you to in case you 
ever did need one?” Miss Gallatin commented. 

“I’ve been busy, learning all sorts of new things 
in the office-” 

“And out of it,” Miss Gallatin interrupted Cis. 
“See here, my dear girl, let me ask you bluntly: 
Are you engaged to my boarder, Mr. Moore?” 

“No, Miss Gallatin, but I am really engaged 



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159 


without being! It is exactly the same thing, and 
I’d have been engaged when you asked me, if you 
hadn’t asked me to-day!” Cis laughed, but Miss 
Gallatin shook her head violently, having been 
shaking it gently as a running accompaniment and 
comment from the first syllable of Cicely’s answer. 

“Girl alive, it’s not in the least the same thing!” 
cried the gaunt woman energetically. “Making 
love to a girl, and tying up to her under bonds are 
by no means the same! Men flirt and flit; woo 
and walk, and the girls think that there’s so much 
honor back of warm looks that they’re as secure 
behind a bow as a vow. Now, my honest Cicely 
Adair—for I know you’re as straight a girl as walks 
—these words may sound alike, but their sounds 
and sense are quite different. I’m going to tell you 
something about G. Rodney Moore; he was running 
hard after Gertrude Davenport a while ago; she’s 
a rich beauty, and now he’s dangling after you. 
Honorable?” 

Cis laughed long and merrily; it is not unpleas¬ 
ant to have victory over another girl attributed to 
oneself, however humble-minded and gentle- 
hearted the conqueror may be. Cis began to sing 
the once popular song: 

“ ‘But I never knew, dear, 

That I should meet you, dear; 

So let’s forget the girls I met 
Before I met you!’ ” 


“H’m!” grunted Miss Gallatin. “That’s no 



160 


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answer, though it’s been given as one ever since 
Noe’s grandson went gallavating! Miss Adair, 
you’re a good girl not to slap me and bid me go 
about my own affairs, but I suppose you know that 
I want to befriend you. I know that you go off 
seeing the country with my captivating lodger, and 
it worries me. I don’t trust that fellow; I never 
have. Now you will slap me! You’ll put up with 
my meddling, but not with my misjudging your 
hero; is that so?” 

44 Well, I don’t like it,” said Cis, 44 but I’m sure 
you mean it kindly, and can’t help seeing Rod 
crooked. In reality he’s splendid, true as steel, 
kind— splendid , that’s all!” 

44 He tells me that he shall not stay with me all 
winter, that he is looking about for an apartment, a 
small one. Know anything about that?” Miss Gal¬ 
latin demanded. 

44 0h, the absurd fellow!” cried Cis, blushing 
furiously to the roots of her brilliant red hair. 
' 4 This winter! Mercy! No, Miss Gallatin, I don’t 
know anything about it, but I suppose—This win¬ 
ter! Just imagine!” 

44 I do hope there’s a deaf and dumb saint who 
intercedes for girls in love!” cried Miss Hannah 
Gallatin impatiently. 44 It would be the only one 
who could thoroughly understand her! Evidently 
you think the apartment means that G. Rodney 
expects to cage his bird, but I think that’s by no 
means certain. You blind, honest little bat, it 
might mean anything else but that! Cicely Adair, 
I found out lately, accidentally dropping a book 



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out of which a card tumbled—one of G. Rodney’s 
books—that he was once a Catholic!’’ 

w4 Yes, he was,” Cis said carelessly. “I knew that. 
He doesn’t believe in any form of religion; he 
thinks it’s all nonsense, but I’ll learn to be a good 
Catholic myself, and then Rod will get straightened 
out.” 

""Cicely Adair, look out for the man that is not 
true to his faith; disloyalty to his God is a mighty 
poor argument for his loyalty to a woman. And do 
your converting before, not after you marry him! 
Something there I don’t like; never have. I’m 
afraid for you, Cicely Adair. I wish I had proof— 
or else no doubts!” Miss Gallatin looked troubled. 

Across the space of several months Jeanette 
Lucas’ voice reached Cis as Miss Gallatin spoke; 
it said again to her: 

“I thought that I should cure his one defect, his 
indifference to religion. I know now that he was 
false to all things, to me as to God! Cicely Adair, 
you’re a Catholic girl; remember this lesson when 
you think of marrying.” 

Cicely shivered involuntarily, and the chill of 
the memory of this warning from the girl whom 
she had revered, then pitied, drove out the quick 
anger with which she had heard Miss Gallatin’s last 
words, and made her answer quietly: 

“I think you mean to be good to me, Miss Galla¬ 
tin, and I appreciate it, but, please, nothing more 
against Rodney Moore to me. I ought not to have 
let you say one word! He loves me, as I love him, 
and he trusts me as I trust him. I don’t know what 


162 


THE GABLE 


he will say when I tell him that someone warned 
me against him and that I let them—of course I 
must confess it to him! I shall marry him. There 
isn’t anything else to do when the whole world 
would be black-empty without him! Even if I’m 
to be unhappy, still I must marry him. But I’m 
not afraid of being unhappy. How silly, how 
wrong, but still more how silly, to suspect people 
without a grain of reason! You haven’t the least 
proof of Rod’s being anything but what I’ve found 
him, the best, as he is the dearest, cleverest, kind¬ 
est, biggest, truest man in all the whole wide 
world!” 

“Forgive my meddling, Miss Adair,” said Miss 
Gallatin humbly. “No one ever rescued a girl in 
love from her fate, even though she brought tons 
of proof against the man. And I have none; you’re 
right. Nevertheless—But I’m to say no more! I 
like you, my dear; I truly like you, and I’ve known 
what it was to love a man madly, trust him utterly, 
and find him false and evil! If G. Rodney leaves 
my house for that apartment and you’re not domi¬ 
ciled in it, will you come to board with me? I’d 
like to have you under my roof. And the day may 
come when you’ll find queer, lean, ugly Hannah 
Gallatin better than no one. Like Mrs. Wallace’s ?” 

“Oh, yes; it’s all right,” said Gis, glad to be let 
off from answering the previous questions. “It’s 
clean, and she gives us lots of good food, but—Mrs. 
Wallace’s women boarders are not all my fancy 
might paint them!” 

“Fancy sketches ’twould be!” returned Miss 


THE GABLE 


163 


Gallatin. “Women boarders are a species by them¬ 
selves; idle, censorious, meddlesome. Hers aren’t 
peculiar to Mrs. Wallace; she’s not to blame for 
’em; mine are just the same! They’re all alike, 
mostly, and when they’re different from the rest, 
heaven help the different ones! The things I’ve 
seen women, who were supposed to be ladies when 
they were away from a boarding house table, do 
to get the hearts of the celery—gracious! I’m sure 
those at Mrs. Wallace’s pick at you; you’re too gay 
and independent to escape! Too young, besides! 
Well, that would be the same anywhere, but come 
to me if ever there’s a chance. You can’t come 
while G. Rodney’s in the house; I won’t have you! 
Now, good-bye, my dear! I do like you, and, 
somehow, the thought of you anxiously haunts me. 
Believe me, if you are happy with G. Rodney and 
can bring him back to his faith, if he’ll be to you 
what you expect him to be, no one will be more 
glad than queer Hannah Gallatin! So don’t hold 
a grudge in your memory of me, and come to see 
me some Sunday—if you have spare time!” 

Cis heartily shook the worn hand which this 
peculiar, but sterling woman held out to her. She 
resented her suspicions of Rodney, yet in spite of 
them, she liked her cordially, and left her with a 
surprising warmth for her in her own heart, and a 
pity that recognized the tragedy which Miss Galla¬ 
tin’s brief allusion to her own perfidious lover re¬ 
vealed. 

Cis walked on thoughtfully for a short distance 
after leaving Miss Gallatin, her thoughts grave, 



164 


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almost somber. It was gloomy to know that once 
this woman had been young like her, full to over¬ 
flowing with the joy which now filled Cicely, joy 
which had congealed under the cruellest ice, the 
cold of disappointment and disillusionment. But 
the perfidy of that older lover did not involve the 
perfidy of Rodney. Rodney! The word “perfidy” 
was an absurdity in connection with his name! 
Cis threw off her depression, squared her shoulders 
like a boy, and broke into a swinging pace, softly 
whistling: “But I never knew, dear,” the song 
which she had hummed replying to Miss Gallatin. 
This time, casting aside her dignity as Mr. Lucas’ 
private secretary, Cis whistled aloud in the street, 
albeit softly. 

There were piles of letters waiting upon her desk 
when Cis sat down to it, letters in ordinary long- 
hand and typed letters, but the majority of them 
written in the code peculiar to that office and to the 
secrets of its clients and associates. 

Cis plunged into them, reading and assorting 
into piles letters relating to legal affairs, cases in 
which Lucas and Henderson, as a firm, were re¬ 
tained ; letters relating to Mr. Lucas’ personal 
clients, people who retained him as advisor in their 
affairs, rather as a wise man of sterling integrity 
than as a lawyer; letters of appeal, or asking infor¬ 
mation; last of all, letters in the code relating to 
the matter of the pending franchise; reporting its 
progress in the three states dealing with it, and 
with Congress; the likelihood of the bill passing 


THE CABLE 


165 


which would make it possible; suggestions of means 
which would further its success. The mail relating 
to the franchise, as well as his personal correspond¬ 
ence, Cis laid upon Mr. Lucas’ desk; he would not 
come in before eleven, or possibly noon that day, 
having first gone to the bank to conduct that part 
of its business which fell upon him as its president. 

Then Cis plunged into correspondence from yes¬ 
terday’s notes, which she must write up and dis¬ 
patch. She was immersed in this when Mr. Lucas 
entered. 

“Good morning. Miss Adair,” he said and passed 
her to take up the papers which she had laid down, 
awaiting him. 

He read rapidly, putting aside a few letters for 
a second reading, but he merely glanced through 
the letters which were not written in the code, 
stacking them for a return to them later on; evi¬ 
dently the one absorbing, pressing matter of that 
day was the franchise, soon to be decided. 

“Miss Adair, you know a great deal that the out¬ 
side world is eager to learn,” said Mr. Lucas, look¬ 
ing over at Cis as she busily wrote at her desk, a 
short distance from his own. “There are many 
people’s hopes hanging upon this pending fran¬ 
chise ; many waiting to snatch up the shares of the 
new enterprise, to get them at the lowest possible 
figure. What would they not give to know now 
that the franchise is secured? They could buy to¬ 
day at 32^4, and sell within two months at fifty per 
cent above par! A profit not to be despised! And 


166 


THE CABLE 


within a year that profit will at least double. The 
newspapers are agog for inside information, for a 
tip as to the probabilities of the outcome, partly to 
secure a scoop over other papers, partly to serve 
political ends. What do you purpose doing with 
your knowledge. Miss Adair? Sell out to the high¬ 
est bidder? Offer your knowledge, say, to a New 
York paper, and make it do something handsome 
for you, in return for the advantage you offer it?” 

Mr. Lucas spoke with a smile that showed that 
he considered Cicely far beyond the reach of 
temptation thus to betray confidence. His face also 
expressed great satisfaction, even relief. As the 
president of a national bank, it might prove un¬ 
pleasant for him if the failure of the franchise dis¬ 
closed him deeply concerned in its success. Mr. 
Lucas was playing with Cis and the fancy of her 
betraying him, under the necessity for some outlet 
for the satisfaction which his face revealed. 

Cis looked up and smiled. 

“No; I won’t sell you up, Mr. Lucas,” she said. 
“Is it settled then? Is the Big Deal on? Is the 

franchise secured?” 

“I thought you read the letters, Miss Adair. You 
aren't forgetting the code, are you?” Mr. Lucas 
looked half-annoyed, half-amused. “I want you to 
go over the mail carefully, and I surely want you 
to read the code straight.” 

“I did read the letters, Mr. Lucas, and I under¬ 
stood that they were favorable, but—to tell the 
truth, I understood what I read enough to do the 


THE CABLE 


167 


right thing with them, but the letters did not make 
much impression on me; I had something impor¬ 
tant on my mind,” candid Cis explained. 

Mr. Lucas laughed outright. “A girl is a girl, 
clever or stupid, faithful or unreliable! I’d wager 
1 could shrewdly guess the important subject. Im¬ 
portant, mark you! The franchise being a mere 
bagatelle! Well, well, Miss Adair, Fve no doubt 
that you did precisely as you say you did, read and 
understood, and forgot for really ‘important mat¬ 
ters’ when you had read! The franchise is assured, 
Miss Adair, and great events are afoot! I am as de¬ 
lighted as I have been anxious about it. We shall 
all profit, but it is my honest conviction that the 
profit to the public will exceed the money returns. 
Be careful not to know all this, if you please; the 
information must not leak out yet, not for two 
months more,” Mr. Lucas warned Cis. 

“I’ll keep quiet, Mr. Lucas. I’ve been ap¬ 
proached by a few Poll Prys, but—nothing doing!’’ 
Cis laughed gaily, permitting herself a relapse into 
the slang which her new dignity had been making 
her eschew. 

That evening Rodney met Cis just beyond the 
door of the building which housed the Lucas and 
Henderson offices, when she came forth at nearly 
five o’clock. 

The sight of him, handsome, faultlessly dressed, 
debonair, smiling happily as they came toward 
each other, set Cicely’s pulses bounding joyously; 
his presence was the sufficient answer to the doubt 


168 


THE CABLE 


of him suggested by Miss Gallatin, repudiated by 
Cis, yet, like all doubts, hard to silence completely, 
even when downed. 

“Oh, Rod, I’m glad!” cried Cis almost running 
over the short distance intervening between them. 

“Oh, Cis, I’m gladder!” echoed Rodney. “Wliat’s 
amiss, Cis? Amiss-Cis; goes along slick, but Cis is 
never amiss!” 

“I want to confess to you, Rory,” said Cis, as 
Rodney turned to walk with her. 

“The only one I want you ever so much as to 
think of confessing to,” Rodney said approvingly. 

“Someone warned me that it wasn’t safe to play 
with you, Rory O’Moore, that I’d be sorry later on, 
that you weren’t quite, quite all right, trustworthy, 
you know. I didn’t really listen; I did not believe, 
and I said that sort of talk had to stop, but it was 
said, Rod, and I’m ashamed of myself that I let 
more than your name get past. I didn’t listen, I 
didn’t truly, but too much was said.” Cis poured 
out her confession eagerly. 

“Who was it? Who was she? Safe to say she , of 
course! What else did she tell you? Anything I 
ought to know—and that you ought not to know?” 
Rodney looked furiously angry, and somewhat 
alarmed. 

“Don’t ask me who it was; I won’t tell. I won’t 
say it was a woman; may have been a man. And 
nothing was said, more than I’ve told you; that the 
person doubted your being safe for me to play 
with,” cried Cis. “I’m sorry I heard more than one 
word.” 


THE CABLE 


169 


“The old gal, I’ll bet! Funny old Gallatin; she 
always suspects me,” cried Rodney. “Why, Cis; 
why. Holly, my darling, there’s no one on earth half 
as safe as I for you to play with! How dares she 
think I’d harm you, grieve you? Never any other 
man loved a girl as I love you. I’m mad about you, 
Cis, you—you glowing Holly-berry! I never 
dreamed there was such a girl on earth. When 
we’re married—My heavens, when we're married! 
Cis, oh, Cis, you can’t dream how happy we’re to 
be! Did she think maybe we wouldn’t marry? 
Cis, we shall, we must! You’re going to marry me, 
aren’t you, my darling, my glowing ruby-jewel?” 

Cis looked up, trembling, forgetful of fear, of 
doubt, responding to the call of this love that 
blotted out the world with as much ardor as its 
summons held. “Yes, oh, yes! I’d die else,” she 
said. 

Rodney drew her to him oblivious to the high¬ 
way and its many passers-by, but Cis came to her 
senses, and eluded his arms. 

“Oh, Rod, Rory dear, we’re engaged!” she almost 
sobbed. “We are really, truly engaged, and isn’t 
it beautiful! Do people get engaged like this, with¬ 
out meaning to, just sort of talking, and then there 
you are? And it’s so public, and so queer! But, 
oh, Rory O’Moore, it’s so beautiful! What can it 
mean, it’s so beautiful?” 

“It means that by your birthday, by Christmas, 
my Holly-berry, you’ll be in your own home, in 
my home, my wife, and that no cold nor storms 
shall ever touch my Christmas bride! Oh, Holly, 


170 


THE CABLE 


Holly of my heart, red and glowing, thorns for all 
else, but for me the crimson fruit of your love!” 
cried Rodney, stammering under an emotion which 
unconsciously turned back to the phrases of his 
Celtic forbears for its expression. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE WEAKNESS OF STRENGTH 

SEE the whole world through your tresses, 
Holly! They cover my eyes as a veil and 
everything glows, shines with glory!” Rodney had 
said to Cis. 

It was true of them both that a joy past realiza¬ 
tion, past expression, filled and flooded their ways 
and their days. Cicely gave herself up to the rap¬ 
ture of a love so mighty that it was almost pain; 
gave herself with the generosity of a nature honest, 
fearless, intense. Rodney found her love for him 
far exceeding his expectation of it, and he had ex¬ 
pected to be endowed beyond the average man by 
the love of a woman who, more than any that he 
had ever known, asked nothing for herself but to 
be allowed to submerge herself. 

He was delirious, breathless at times when she 
bared to him her rare, sublimated passion, yet 
there was in her a quality which awed him, while 
she enkindled him. Cis loved him with all the 
forces of her royal human nature, yet with it she 
also loved him with a purity of soul that frightened 
the man, ten years her elder, versed in the ways of 
lesser women. Crimson as a flame fed by her life¬ 
blood burned her love upon the altar she erected 
to it, but over and above the red flame of human 

171 


172 


THE CABLE 


love, burned a white flame of utter devotion, ideal¬ 
ization, spiritual detachment; it dominated and 
sublimated the love that, though it was rare, yet 
was lower than this, its supplement. Wonderful in 
a girl whose life had not trained her for the highest 
form of love, was this purity of aim which Rodney 
recognized at all times in her. 

Rodney himself arose to reverence this idealized 
love, to defer to it. He was not a man whose life 
was notably better, nor was it worse than the aver¬ 
age man’s life. He had thrown off his religion be¬ 
cause it would have thwarted him; because its law 
bore heavily upon his particular case; because it 
never had meant much to him, and this world fully 
engrossed him. He meant to be both rich and 
happy; he had intended to marry ambitiously, but 
Cis had come, with her red hair, and it had burned 
like dross everything that would have stood be¬ 
tween her and him. He had fallen in love with 
Cicely Adair passionately and honestly; to get her 
and hold her his he was more than ready to throw 
over any other woman, however full her hands 
might have been when he had espoused her. After 
he had won Cis, Rodney was ready to stake any¬ 
thing on himself; he felt that he was sure to get the 
worldly goods which he craved. Cis must be first. 
Now that he had Cis, he knew that, even if he 
missed the riches, he should be rich. She filled his 
horizon, filled his eyes and heart, yet she held him 
indescribably above himself; she humbly wor¬ 
shipped him, abasing herself with wonder that such 
as he should love her, yet never descended to what 


THE CABLE 


173 


Rodney himself knew was his natural level, nor 
ever for an instant suspected that she held him 
down while she lifted him up by assuming that he 
was the type of man whom Arthur tried to form 
to sit at his Round Table. 

Cicely mystified Rodney; she was at once flame 
and starlight. He could not understand that the 
flame was of the sort that burned away dross; that 
Cis loved him with such overwhelming love that 
she walked under a sense of consecration. He 
could not understand, yet he recognized this and 
deferred to it in a way that amazed himself when 
he came to think it over. He could not risk letting 
Cis find him less than she believed him. Her trust 
in him, her idealization of him, humbled him and 
intrigued him. Could he marry Cis, deceiving her? 
Could he undeceive her? After they were married 
Cis would learn to accept things as they were; she 
would not love him less; she would love him more, 
tremendous as her love now was, for then there 
would be the complete blending which was mar¬ 
riage. Cis was not the sort of woman to criticise 
her husband. She would understand and justify 
him when she was his wife, nor would her slender 
hold upon the dominant Old Church be maintained 
against the clutch with which she would hold to 
her husband. Rodney’s fingers tightened as he 
thought how he would hold his wife, although 
Rome itself were hurled upon his grasp that held 
her. He knew that his love now flooded Cicely’s 
whole being with joy; when he was married to her 
he would show her that she had known no more of 


174 


THE CABLE 


joy than the bird in the shell knows of the sunlight 
awaiting it. 

Cis had received her engagement ring from Rod¬ 
ney, not the conventional diamond. 

Rodney had a friend who was a dealer in 
precious stones; from him he had obtained a ruby 
perfect in color, beautifully cut, and he had him¬ 
self designed its setting. Holly leaves laid one 
upon another, points resting each upon the follow¬ 
ing leaf, formed the ring; four leaf points con¬ 
verged to hold the wonderful ruby high to catch the 
light. It glowed and pulsated upon Cicely’s slen¬ 
der, nervous hand as if it refracted the light within 
her, the glow of her love for her lover. 

“Oh, Rod, my dearest, it’s beyond words to 
praise!” sighed Cis, turning her hand to give the 
ruby light upon every side. “It’s too wonderful 
for me!” 

Rodney caught her head between his hands and 
kissed and kissed her red hair. Then he crushed 
her face against his and held her lips to his in a 
long kiss. 

“I deserve it,” he said releasing her. “The 
ruby is you; how can it be too wonderful for you? 
No white diamond for you, but a ruby, like this 
one. You are my Holly, my glowing, ruby-red 
Holly! My Christmas Gift! Cis, we shall be mar¬ 
ried on Christmas Eve? Sis, I beg of you, don’t 
ask me to wait longer! That’s almost two full 
months! I’ve found the apartment; I haven’t told 
you, but it’s a little bit of all right! Christmas Eve 
our wedding! Christmas morning, when the bells 


THE CABLE 


175 


ring, to say for the first time: ‘Good morning, my 
wife!’ ‘Good morning, Rod, my own man!’ And 
our Christmas breakfast in our own home—no 
trips away then; perhaps later!—but I yours, you 
mine, wholly, forever, my Holly upon my own 
walls! Cis, in mercy—say yes!” 

‘'Rod! Rory, my darling!” Cis caught her 
breath, her words almost a cry. “I want to come 
and I can’t! It’s too soon, Rod dear! Only two 
months; not quite that! I could leap with you into 
fire when you call me, yet I can’t marry, not so 
soon! Girls—girls—Oh, yes! Girls have to get 
ready, get clothes and things, and it takes time. 
Rod!” 

“Cis, you’re a royal princess, a giver by rank and 
nature! Would you put me off with such a mean, 
a dishonest excuse? Do you know what you ask 
when you ask me to wait? You, the generous, the 
unselfish, the royal giver! As though you hadn’t 
clothes! If you have enough to go to Lucas and 
Henderson’s every day you have enough to live in 
your own home, hidden from all eyes but mine— 
and they won’t see your clothing, my Holly! We’ll 
live only about seventy years, all told; less than 
fifty more! Will you waste time? How dare you 
waste time, youth time, too! We should have been 
married these four years, at least. You could have 
been married at eighteen, if I’d have known you 
then—No, we couldn’t! I couldn’t have married 
you then, my own. You are my own, Cis! Noth¬ 
ing else is mine! Cis, I’ve had a harder life than 
you know; I’m going to tell you when we’re in our 




176 


THE CABLE 


home, sitting down all alone, you in my arms, your 
dear red head on my shoulder! But don’t be a 
niggard with me, generous Cis! Make up my hard 
luck to me. Oh, make it up to me! You’ll wipe 
out memory of the word hard luck! Cis, how can 
you think of delaying life together? It’s cowardly, 
unfair, cold love, and these things are not in you! 
Christmas, Holly?” 

Rod had pleaded with such quivering earnest¬ 
ness that Cis paled and trembled before it, swept 
beyond her power to hesitate, even beyond decid¬ 
ing. 

“My poor Rory! Were you so badly off four 
years ago ?” she murmured. “But I’d have married 
you, if you were a beggar with a little dog on a 
string! I’ll come home to you at Christmas, then, 
my own Rodney; I’ll keep my birthday with my 
husband in my own home. Oh, Rory O’Moore!” 

For Rodney had fallen at her feet and was kiss¬ 
ing her hands over and over again, kissing the ruby 
which he had placed upon one of them, as if he 
feared his own joy, and for the moment dared not 
rise to the level of the girl who had shackled her 
brave freedom for his sake, who so trusted him and 
sacrificed for him. 

Three days later Cis received an invitation from 
Miss Gallatin to dine and spend the evening with 
her. Rodney had told his eccentric, but fine land¬ 
lady of his engagement and speedy marriage. In 
default of relatives on either side Miss Hannah 
Gallatin felt it incumbent upon her to do some¬ 
thing as a mild celebration of what had happened. 


THE CABLE 


177 


the more that she had doubted Rodney, and, for 
lack of anything else upon which to hang that 
doubt, had feared that he was playing with Cis, 
would never marry her. Besides this, with the 
ardor of her own strong, and comparatively recent 
adherence to the Catholic Church, she was anxious 
about Cicely’s marriage to a renegade from it. 
Cicely, whose own lukewarmness was only too evi¬ 
dent. 

Miss Gallatin was not an ordinary boarding 
house keeper; queer as she was in appearance, 
uncouth and almost shabby in attire, she had come 
of good stock; her youth had passed in refined, 
even luxurious surroundings; she was well-read, 
clever, was what used to be meant by u a gentle¬ 
woman.” She was dependent upon her own exer¬ 
tions for a livelihood because her patrimony had 
passed from her wholly into a brother’s hands, 
owing to her father’s conviction that nothing of his 
must ever be administered by one who would be 
likely to use its smallest fraction to benefit that 
menace to American institutions, the Roman Cath¬ 
olic Church. 

Miss Gallatin did not invite Cicely to dine at the 
common table; it was not covenable to expose a 
young girl to criticism among her lover’s fellow- 
boarders; she was so far from being their concern 
that they were sure to watch her closely and later to 
comment on her violently. 

A small table was spread in a cozy room near the 
general dining room and in it Cicely and Rodney 
were to dine with their hostess, and a gentleman 


178 


THE CABLE 


whom Miss Gallatin explained to Cicely in pri¬ 
vate. 

U I feel honored to entertain him, the gentleman 
whom you’re to meet at dinner, Miss Adair,” she 
said. “He’s a great man, doing great things as if 
they were less than little ones. He has a fine estate 
and plenty of money; is not married. He is not so 
much a good Catholic, as an enraptured one; he 
consistently puts his faith before all else. He has 
travelled everywhere, speaks several languages, has 
a great library, reads much, writes, too, a little, I 
believe; essays, articles on current questions, giving 
the Catholic point of view. He is organizing Cath¬ 
olic laymen and women to be ready to serve the 
Church wherever it is needed, and his quite splen¬ 
did big house is the headquarters for this league of 
his. He has people staying there all the time who 
need what he can give; a chance for a convert to 
get on his feet, for instance, one who is impover¬ 
ished by coming in, and a chance to find friends if 
he is alone, lonely, needing countenance and ad¬ 
vice. He has a teacher of Italian there, to fit 
people to stem the tide of theft of Italian immi¬ 
grants through bribery by the Protestant sects. All 
these sorts of things he does. He is well on toward 
forty; a knight riding to rescue, if ever there was 
one! I call him Sir Anselm—not to his face! In 
fact, I rarely see him. He’s in town, and I’m grati¬ 
fied to death that he’s going to stay here. He’s 
come to see Miss Miriam Braithwaite; she’s a great 
friend of his, one of his sort, a convert. His name 
is Anselm Lancaster.” 


THE CABLE 


179 


Cis heard this long tale of the man whom she was 
to meet, without actually hearing it; she felt no 
smallest interest in this fine gentleman, nearing 
forty, who was spending his days, strength and 
means for his Church and hers. If she thought at 
all of what Miss Gallatin told her as she made her 
hair tidy for dinner, it was that he “must be fusty 
and musty, pokey and dull to fuss over things like 
that.” In the attractive little room where she 
dined, Cis was introduced to Mr. Lancaster. She 
saw him tall, slenderly built, elegant in dress, fine 
of feature, handsome, perhaps, and with a gleam 
of pure humor in his eyes which was unexpected to 
her in an extremely devout man. Then she forgot 
all about him, for Rodney began to talk to Miss 
Gallatin, the stranger joined in, and in listening 
to Rodney, who did talk well and fluently, Cis for¬ 
got all else, her eyes as well as her ears feasting 
upon Rodney’s perfections. 

Occasionally Cis spoke, uttering one of her char¬ 
acteristic quick speeches, much to the point, with 
a humorous turn and a keenness of insight that 
made Mr. Lancaster look at her attentively, smiling 
upon her as if he were ready, desirous more cor¬ 
rectly, to draw her into conversation, hut Cis did 
not see this, nor did she respond beyond the re¬ 
quirements of civility, to the remarks to this end 
which he addressed to her. It came out that Cis was 
secretary to Mr. Lucas, and when he heard this Mr. 
Lancaster turned to her with alacrity. 

“Mr. Wilmer Lucas?” he cried. “Lucas and Hen¬ 
derson? That office is deeply concerned with the 


180 


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franchise now before the legislature and Congress. 
Everybody is agog to know how it is going. I, 
myself, am imploring all the saints to get it through! 
It will matter greatly to my plans, if it succeeds. 
I’m going to be able to found an Italian colony, if 
it goes through; give employment to many heads of 
families, and save no end of bambini from prosel¬ 
ytizing societies for their destruction! You must 
know something about the way the matter is tend¬ 
ing, Miss Adair. Please admit that it is trying, to 
feel that the knowledge one needs is just across the 
table, but wholly inaccessible, enclosed by the 
nimbus of your hair, sacred as a trust.” 

“I know all about it,” said Cis. “I handle the 
whole correspondence, but I’m not talking.” 

“Don’t imagine that I would suspect you of be¬ 
traying a trust, still less that I would want infor¬ 
mation at that price,” said Mr. Lancaster. “It must 
soon be decided and made public. Interesting to 
see the inner wheels go around, drop a little ac¬ 
celerating oil on them in a hidden corner!” 

“Yes,” agreed Cis. “I like wheels, things getting 
done. But I don’t care more about that franchise 
than anything else, except that everybody seems to 
be wild about it. Rather sport to be the only one 
in the know, except your principals! What I’d like 
to find out is who’s going to carry off the World’s 
Series Championship!” 

Mr. Lancaster laughed, with a friendly and ad¬ 
miring look at unconscious Cis, who was laughing 
at Rod’s assurance that he could tell her, only she 
wouldn’t believe him. They had a bet on the re- 


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suit of the baseball season, on the chances of which 
they differed. 

After dinner there was music; Mr. Lancaster 
played the piano remarkably well, and Rodney had 
brought his violin; he played with brilliant excel¬ 
lence music that was sometimes sentimental, some¬ 
times frolicsome, always popular, and never classi¬ 
cal. Cis had a pleasant voice and sang with natural 
expression and taste, but she could not be induced 
to utter a note. 

“I don’t want to sing where I can be heard,” she 
explained. “Padded cell, solitary confinement for 
my concert hall!” and again Mr. Lancaster laughed 
at her; he evidently found her unaffected gaiety 
refreshing. 

At last the evening was at an end, and Miss Gal¬ 
latin was helping Cis into her coat preparatory to 
her leaving. 

“So it’s all settled, Miss Adair—let me call you 
Cicely, will you?” said Miss Gallatin. 

“No, but say Cis; I like it!” Cis responded to 
the affection in the rugged, patient, lonely face over 
her shoulder. “Yes, it’s settled! See the ring? 
I’m to be married at Christmas, if you please! 
My birthday.” 

“Are you a Noel maid?” asked Miss Gallatin. “I 
noticed the ring; most beautiful! Now I under¬ 
stand the holly leaves and the ruby single holly 
berry. A marvellous ruby, a significant and beau¬ 
tiful design for a Christmas girl!” 

“Rod made the design; he calls me Holly,” said 
Cis proudly. “He’s a great Rodney!” 


182 


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“Has he come back to the Church to thank God 
for you where He should be thanked?” asked Miss 
Gallatin softly. “I want to be sure of your happi¬ 
ness, my dear.” 

“Dear me, no, he hasn’t, Miss Gallatin!” Cis 
laughed, but she spoke impatiently. “He is so good 
as it is, that I’m sure he’s all right. I can’t seem 
to worry over Rod!” 

“You’ve got to build your house square with its 
foundation, if it’s to stand,” said Miss Gallatin. 
“Dear Cis, I do hope you’ll be happy; be blessed, 
which is more. I suppose it may be that you’re 
to be the torch bearer, lead G. Rodney Moore to 
heaven. God sees farther than we can! Did you 
like Mr. Lancaster?” 

“Who’s Mr. Lancaster? Oh, that man down¬ 
stairs? He seems all right, plays like a dream, 
though I always think it is a little queer for a man 
to play the piano. Isn’t he sort of religious-crazy? 
All right to be a Catholic, but you can’t keep at 
it all the time, as if it was a hurdy-gurdy and the 
pennies would stop if you stopped grinding it!” 
Cis laughed at herself, and gathered up her gloves, 
ready to go. 

“Oh, my child, can’t you see the difference be¬ 
tween grinding at a thing and being permeated with 
it?” cried Miss Gallatin. “You don’t grind at the 
thought of Rod; you feel him, you breathe him, 
though you are not consciously thinking of him. 
So it is with the love of God; God is, and you 
exist in Him; there is nothing that is not of Him 


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in all your actions and thoughts, though it may 
be only that His presence is beneath it all, not 
conscious every instant to your mind. Thus Anselm 
Lancaster loves God.” 

Cis stopped short in her passage to the door, and 
stared silently for a moment at Hannah Gallatin. 
Then she said slowly: 

T never stop thinking of Rod; he is ceaselessly 
before my eyes; I breathe him, not air. Do you 
mean to say that anyone ever feels like that to God, 
to God , Whom you do not see, Who is—well, far 
off, not part of us, just—Oh, how shall I say it? 
Just God , heard about in church, not very well 
known?” 

“Who is 4 just God.’ You said it well, poor Cis. 
Who is our Beginning, our End, in Whom 4 we live, 
and move and have our being’; Saint Paul an¬ 
swered you before you asked your question. I 
mean that He is loved in that way by many, and 
that unless you share in that love to a degree, all 
other love will fail you, and life be wretched 
in its course and in its end,” said Miss Gallatin 
solemnly. 

Cis stared at her for another instant, then she 
turned to go. 

“I never once thought that piety meant that,” 
she said. “Yet of course God is what you say. 
It’s quite nice; I never thought I liked piety much. 
Perhaps if you hang on tight when you don’t get 
it, God lets you get it later on. But you must 
hang on awfully tight when you don’t feel 


184 


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like hanging, I suppose! Well, I certainly don’t 
get it now! Thanks, Miss Gallatin. And thanks 
for the dinner and nice evening.” 

On the way to Mrs. Wallace’s Rodney broke a 
long silence by saying: 

“That man was interested in you, Holly; he sat 
up and took notice when you spoke.” 

“Did he? Who did?” asked Cis, emerging from 
her thoughts. 

“Who did! How many did you meet? I’d think 
you were playing off, Cis, if you ever played tricks, 
off or on! That Lancaster stained-glass ecclesias¬ 
tical piece, to be sure!” retorted Rodney. “Gra¬ 
cious, what a fool a man makes of himself— 
woman, either!—when he or she get going on re¬ 
ligion! Thank the gods, we are free from humbug! 
Say, Cis, how much do you love me?” Rodney 
sought her hand to punctuate his question. 

“Kids say: 4 More’n tongue can tell!’ I suspect 
that’s the answer, Rory O’Moore!” said Cis. 

“I want you to prove it, my treasure!” said Rod. 
“I’ve been thinking of it for some time. I saw 
when you were talking to-night of that franchise 
that the matter was already decided, that you knew 
which way it was going. Cis, I’d never ask you to 
betray that code of your firm’s; I’d never ask you 
to do a thing that was wrong, but I more than ask, 
I beg of you, give me a hint, tell me whether the 
franchise is going through or not. Cis, listen be¬ 
fore you answer! I’ll never, I swear to you, let 
another person have a hint of what I know, nor 
will anyone ever guess I’ve had inside information. 


THE CABLE 


185 


I’ve a little money, a few thousands; that stock can 
be bought for, say .33, brokers’ commissions and 
all told. It will sell for 200 within a year, if it 
goes at all. Tell me only this: Shall I take the 
stock to the limit of my capital, or is it hands off ? 
See? I don’t ask for a word directly on the fran¬ 
chise, but shall I buy or let it alone? Tell me, 
Cis; it’s for us both, you know.” 

That last appeal stiffened Cis. She cried im¬ 
patiently: 

“Do you think I want to profit by dishonor?” 

“Cis, Cis, my Holly bride, my wife in eight 
weeks, do listen to me!” implored Rod. “It 
isn’t wrong to give me the tip; I won’t let 
anyone else share it; you wouldn’t be betraying 
confidence, but you would share your knowledge 
with your full self. You and I will be one person 
months before that franchise matter is public, 
likely. Only this, Cis: Shall I buy that stock, or 
not? Just nod yes, or shake your head, no. Make 
me by a nod, or save me by a shake of the head; 
that’s all! I need money, Cis. You hesitate! 
Fine old love yours is!” 

“Oh, Rod, I can’t! Don’t you see I can’t?” begged 
Cis. “Don’t ask me, don’t! Mr. Lucas—they all 
trust me. I never played anyone false in all my 
life-” 

“Except me!” cried Rodney bitterly. “You’re my 
wife, or as good as that, with all yourself pledged 
to me, yet when you can serve me, merely by a 
tiny nod when I ask: 6 Cis, shall I buy that stock?’ 
you are stiff-necked and indifferent; you won’t by 



186 


THE CABLE 


the tiny inclination of your head help me upon my 
feet! Shame, Cicely Adair! It’s not what I call 
love; it’s not what I counted on in you! I thought 
you’d die for me, if need were! It’s not the money, 
not first! You fail me, Cis; you refuse to help 
me!” 

“Oh, Rod, oh, Rod!” cried Cis in torture. “You 
know, you know it’s all false! I—can’t! Oh, I 
will, I will! Oh, Rod, don’t look like that, not at 
me; not at Cis! I’ll die for you, I will! I shall be 
dead if I’m no longer trustworthy, but I’d die for 
you! Buy the stock. The franchise is decided; it 
is going through! Oh, Rod, Rod! Oh, what have 
I done!” 

“Right, my precious, my darling! Anyone would 
say you had done right. No one will be the worse 
for it, and I’ll be far, far better! We’ll be better! 
Bless you, my Holly girl, my brave, true, loyal 
Holly girl!” cried Rodney triumphantly. 

“'Don’t call me loyal!” Cis gasped. “And plan so 
I’ll never profit by that money. Rodney, it is heaven 
to love you, but, oh, it can be hell to have anyone 
so necessary to you that everything goes down be¬ 
fore the dread of paining him!” 

Rodney left Cis on the steps of Mrs. Wallace’s 
house, looking wan and pale, grief and terror in 
her wide eyes, but he did not pity her. He was sure 
that she would soon throw off what he considered 
her morbid exaggeration of her failure to keep her 
employers’ secret. 

“Fancy her not telling me! The silly darling!” 
Rodney thought, striding away, whistling loudly 


THE CABLE 


187 


the air with which he serenaded Cis when he 
passed down her street at night; he was sure that 
she was still standing within the open door; listen¬ 
ing to his receding steps and his merry whistling. 

“I’ve got her where I want her! Exactly where I 
I want her! She’d throw over this world, and the 
next, and everything in them for me! There’s not 
another like her; all mad love for me, yet crystal 
clear in soul! Oh, soul! It’s not that; it’s her hon¬ 
esty, her truth, her selflessness! I can’t seem to face 
fooling her; I guess I’ll have to lay the cards on the 
table in front of her, before Christmas, too! I don't 
want to fool Cis Adair! And there’s not the slight¬ 
est risk in doing it, not now! Probably there never 
was. She’s no doddering slave of ignorant preju¬ 
dice! Besides, I’ve got her where I want her; 
to-day proved that! Dandy good thing it hap¬ 
pened ; tested her, gave me pluck to start in square 
with her, and honesty’s the only policy with Cis, 
that’s sure! Just where I want her! My splendid 
girl! It hurt, but she stood pat! Conscience won’t 
make a coward of brave Cis! And afterward I’ll 
know how to salve the conscience if it happens to 
smart a little. After Christmas I’ll be her con¬ 
science! Just where I want her, that gorgeous Cis 
of mine!” 

Rodney went on glowing with triumph, the 
haunting dread of his past weeks almost laid, and 
Cis, when the last echo of his going had died away, 
closed the door and went up stairs slowly, for the 
first time in all her life seeking her bed with a 
heavy heart. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE STRAINED CABLE 

'T'^HERE was a new element in life for Cis, a 
chord in its accompaniment that jarred, though 
she tried not to hear it. For the first time since she 
had been old enough to deal consciously with other 
people, Cis had done something in relation to an¬ 
other of which she was ashamed. When she omitted 
Mass on days of obligation, when it occurred to her 
that her infrequency at the sacraments was not to 
her credit, she was a little sorry, half resolved to do 
better, but she was not ashamed; she indirectly 
counted upon “fixing it up.” It is a noteworthy 
fact that people who do less for God expect Him to 
do more for them; they read the text: “because she 
has loved little much is forgiven her.” 

But in relation to question of honor, “dealing 
straight” as she put it, Cis was acutely sensitive. 
She told herself that it would be too much to expect 
of anyone not to give her betrothed information 
which she possessed and which would not go 
farther, which would, without harm to another, 
greatly benefit him. The fact which she could not 
argue down as it faced her frowningly, was that Mr. 
Lucas had made no exception to his prohibition 
against disclosing the secret which her position 
necessitated her knowing, that she had given her 

18S 


THE CABLE 


189 


pledge to keep it—and had broken it! For the sake 
of Rod, only, of course, to whom she owed her best 
help, but she had broken it! 

The knowledge that she had failed in honor for 
the first time in her life shamed her, afflicted her. 
And back of this shame was a more poignant pain 
which she did not admit in her thoughts. It was 
Rod’s pleading, his making this a test of her devo¬ 
tion to him, to which she had yielded. Rod had 
been indifferent to her duty when it stood in the 
way of his advantage. Was Rod, could Rod be— 
Cis never went farther, but that was far enough to 
leave her weary in mind. 

The visible result of her inward torment was to 
make her more demonstrative of love for Rodney; 
he was surprised to see in her daily new proof of its 
strength, of her disregard of the reserve which, up 
to this time, had tantalized him in her, while it 
whetted his delight in the expressions of feeling 
which he wrung from her. Now she adored him 
openly, frankly, with a feverish eagerness which he 
might have correctly construed if his understand¬ 
ing of this type of girl had been more profound. 
He thought it was due to the rapidly nearing date of 
their marriage, and it made his head swim to think 
what Cis would be to him in her own home if the 
approach to its threshold so multiplied her sweet 
ways. 

A letter had come to Cis from Nan in reply to 
hers announcing her marriage on Christmas eve, a 
Nan-like letter, full of love for Cis, but no less full 
of anxiety. “It seems so quick, Cis darling!” Nan 


190 


THE CABLE 


wrote. “To think that you'll be married before 
me, and I’ve known Joe almost all my life! You 
have not said that your Rod is a Catholic, but Moore 
is sometimes Irish, so I suppose he is one. You 
would not marry anyone who was not a Catholic? 
We’ve so often decided that it is madness to set out 
on a certainty that there’ll be something serious to 
differ upon, when it’s so hard, at best, for people to 
grow close together, so easy to differ. Besides, it’s 
wrong; for the children’s sake it’s wrong—but you 
always said that yourself, so I’m sure Rod Moore 
is a good Catholic. Dearest Cis, I never could tell 
you how I hope and pray for you! For I’m always 
fonder of you than of any other friend I have. Lov¬ 
ingly, Your same old, Nan.” 

“Wonder what she’d say if she knew Rod had 
been a Catholic and given it up? Nan would far 
rather he’d always been Protestant, of course; it 
would be better, too. Wonder what in all the 
world she’d say if she knew he was determined to 
get me to give it all up myself? Nan would take 
the first train on here, carrying a big jug of Holy 
Water, and she’d simply souse Rod and me to drive 
off the devil—bless her heart! But I’m not going 
to quit. To be sure I did miss Mass last Sunday, 
but I go pretty regularly; I’ll go every Sunday after 
I’m married, because it will be up to me to set a 
good example, bring Rod back. A person must 
have some religion, and it’s silly to have one made 
by Luther, or Henry the Eighth, or someone; I 
could make one myself as well as that bunch! I 
suppose it would be easier to convert a Protestant 



THE CABLE 


191 


than turn Rod back; he’s awfully down on it, 
really! I wonder why? That’s not like being slack 
and lazy-minded! Tor the children’s sake,’ Nan 
says! Well, I hope I’ll have children, certainly, 
but I’m not going to marry to please them, I’ll tell 
them that right now! They’ll have to take what 
they find, and if they’ll grow up as splendid as 
Rod is. Church or no Church, I’ll be proud of 
them! Funny little Nannie!” 

“Rory O’Moore,” Cis said that evening to Rod¬ 
ney, “I’ve got to ’fess to Mr. Lucas!” 

“You’ve got to do nothing of the sort!” Rod 
angrily exclaimed. “Cis, don’t be an idiot! What 
good would it do? Could you take back what 
you told me? You’d be a miserable sinner if you 
would, provided you could! Mr. Lucas is happy 
while he is ignorant; let him alone in that form of 
bliss! No harm is done, nobody wronged, nobody 
the wiser. What good would you do by telling on 
yourself? All you’d do is to mess up the situation. 
You’ll be married and out of the office soon. My 
wife isn’t going to keep on in business! Thanks to 
your tip, my dearest, we’ll have a nice little in¬ 
crease to our income.” 

“I can’t answer one of your common-sense state¬ 
ments, Rod,” said Cis slowly, “but I can’t go along; 
with them. Mr. Lucas thinks what isn’t true. Truth 
is the only basis for dealing with anyone. I’ve got 
to tell him exactly what I did; I can’t breathe in his 
office while I know that when he looks at me he sees 
what isn’t there. I don't care to own up, Rod dear, 
but when there isn’t solid rock-bottom of truth 


192 


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under my dealings, my relations with a person, I 
feel like that Irishman who didn’t like aeroplanes 
because ‘when they stopped there wasn’t any place 
to stand to crank the thing!’ When someone is de¬ 
ceived in you, if you don’t make it straight, it’s 
worse than playing with ghosts—they touch you 
and you touch them, yet neither of you is there at 
all!” 

Rodney looked at Cicely for a long time, an in¬ 
scrutable expression upon his face. She made a 
little grimace at him, twisting her lips and showing 
her dimple, but he did not respond with a smile. 
She thought that he was displeased with her, and 
again coaxed him with pursed-up lips, but Rod¬ 
ney’s eyes were steady, clouded; he looked both¬ 
ered, plainly was deep in thought. 

“I’ll put off telling, Rory O’Moore,” Cis said, 
misunderstanding him. “If you hate to have me 
tell, I won’t tell right away, but I’ve got to tell 
sometime, please, Rod!” 

It was a week later that Rod said to Cis: “Will 
you come with me to the apartment to-morrow, 
Holly? I’ve had sent in a few odd chairs, and a 
table that hit me exactly where I live, and I’d like 
your opinion of them, Mistress-of-the-Mansion- 
elect!” They had agreed to pick out the furnish¬ 
ings of their home together, but Cis looked de¬ 
lighted at this departure from the bargain on Rod¬ 
ney’s part, and gladly said that she would go with 
him to see his selections. 

They had changed roles for the week that had 
just passed; Cis, relieved by her definitely an- 


THE CABLE 


193 


nounced plan to confess her wrong-doing to Mr. 
Lucas, felt better about it, and had been bubbling 
over with fun and high spirits. Rodney, on the 
contrary, had been cast-down; Cis repeatedly 
caught him looking at her with such a sober and 
apprehensive look, that she had once been moved 
to expostulate with him. 

“For pity’s sake, Rory O’Moore,” she cried, 
“stop looking at me as if you were saying: ‘Doesn’t 
she look natural! Poor thing, she was so young, 
and with all her faults I love her still! Not so still 
as this, though!’ I’m not nearly as dead as I might 
be; in fact I’m quite lively, I think. What’s wrong 
with me—or you—old chap?” 

“I’m deciding something, Holly-berry,” Rodney 
answered, not smiling at her nonsense. “I’m won¬ 
dering what you’d want me to do about a certain 
thing, on which I can’t consult you without giving 
the thing away, so you never would have a chance to 
decide it, after all. Sounds mysterious, but it’s the 
best I can do by way of answering you. I’m won¬ 
dering how you’d react under something I’ve a 
mind to do. You’re the frankest human being I 
ever knew, Cis; you never have hidden meanings, 
nor lay a plot; you act outright and talk right out! 
Yet I’m not one bit sure of what you’d do under 
untried conditions; you’re capable of doing one of 
two completely opposite things.” 

“Well,” said Cis lightly, in too contented a 
frame of mind to pay close attention to what Rod¬ 
ney might be implying, “I’m glad you can’t tell 
which way I’d jump. Sounds quite impressive, but 



194 


THE GABLE 


probably it’s something like whether I’d go back on 
my bronzey little library and go in for red, after I’d 
sworn no red should come into my happy home! 
I’m more interesting if I’m uncertain; that’s why 
you like women, you men, my Rory; they keep you 
guessing! I’m dreadfully afraid you do know all I 
think, and what I’d do, but it’s dear of you to pre¬ 
tend I’m a nice sphinxy-sphynx!” 

Rodney laughed; he had instantly regretted 
speaking as he had spoken, and he was glad that 
Cis’s incorrigible light-heartedness prevented her 
from taking him seriously, gave him longer to de¬ 
cide whether he should pursue his original plan, 
and tell Cis the secret which he meant to tell her 
after their marriage, or put himself at her mercy 
by telling her at once. He knew that this was the 
only honorable course; he knew that, if their places 
were reversed, Cis would deal thus with him. 

It was the last Sunday in November, the first 
Sunday in Advent, and Cis and Rodney were hap¬ 
pily on their way to look at the three chairs of un¬ 
usual design, and the beautiful mahogany table 
which, so Rodney delighted to put it to Cis, he “had 
sent home.” 

The day enveloped them with the caresses of 
Saint Martin’s Summer; warm sunshine; gentle air 
that brushed over them as they walked, like wings 
that bore blessings; a cloudless sky, veiled with 
hazy warmth that softened, yet did not conceal the 
bright blue that stretched from horizon to horizon. 

"'The winter of our discontent is turned glorious 
summer by our sunny walk,” said Rodney, making 


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195 


an attempt to retain the sound and not the sense of 
the quotation which was lost on Cis. “Almost De¬ 
cember first, only two days distant, and even this 
light-weight overcoat a burden! It’s what my grand¬ 
mother used to call a weather-breeder.” 

“I don’t see why people want to take the polish 
off of a day like this!” cried Cis. “A day like this is a 
present from heaven, and I don’t like to look a gift 
horse in the mouth. Rory O’Moore, don’t you 
think it came just to rejoice with us and strew our 
path to our new little home?” 

“Like a wedding flower girl? Oh, Cicely, you 
bride of brides! I’d think any day would smile and 
look pleasant when it came up at dawn to find us 
together,” Rodney spoke with a little laugh in his 
voice, but it trembled too. 

The apartment did not include many rooms, but 
they were—for apartment rooms—spacious. There 
were two excellent bedrooms, a small room for the 
maid, and its accompanying bath at the rear, a 
small kitchen, a pretty dining room, and a really 
fine living room, besides a tiled bathroom which 
was so white, so modern and perfect in its appoint¬ 
ments that Cis found herself unexpectedly house¬ 
wifely every time that she saw it. Mentally she 
screwed bright nickle fixtures upon the slabs built 
in for them, and hung heavily initialled towels 
upon glass rods, as she stood in the doorway, taking 
in the details of this room devoted to the practice 
of the virtue which is next to godliness. 

“I’m going to turn out well, Rory O’Moore!” Cis 
announced, swinging around to face Rodney, who 



196 


THE CABLE 


had come up behind her and placed his hands upon 
her shoulders. ‘"You always knew I’d be agreeable 
to have around, but you never dreamed I’d be a 
real, dyed-in-the-wool domestic character! Neither 
did I, but I shall be; I feel it coming on! I yearn 
to scrub this white floor and polish the faucets! 
The kitchen, with that white sink and draining 
board, and the cunning cupboard, goes to my head 
till it fairly spins with rapture! Oh, Rod, it’s the 
sweetness of doing for you! I’ve been half scared 
to be married, even to you, but this apartment takes 
it all out of me! It’s home and home-making; it’s 
living for, and with, and in each other! Oh, my 
Rod, I’m not afraid, I’m not! I’m glad, glad I’m 
coming here to be with you, and scrub your rooms, 
and wash your dishes!” 

“Holly, my blessed Holly!’ Rodney breathed the 
words almost inaudibly into Cicely’s ear, all that 
was fine in him moved and awed before her sweet¬ 
ness. 

Voluntarily Cis threw her arms around his neck 
and kissed him, and caresses were rare with her, 
yielded only to his implorations. Rodney under¬ 
stood that she was betrothing herself anew, and he 
met her spirit in tune with it. Why did he fear to 
tell her his secret? This rare, deep-hearted Cicely 
would not fail him for a chimera! 

The new table awakened little less than rapture 
in Cis; it was exactly to her mind. The three chairs 
no less; deep-seated, low, at once “impressive and 
home chairs,” Cis pronounced them. 


THE CABLE 


197 


“Suppose we use them for awhile, Cicely dear,” 
Rodney proposed. 'Td like to talk to you.” 

“All right; I’m ready to talk, or to listen,” agreed 
Cis, dropping into the chair which she had at once 
pronounced “made for the lady of the house.” 
“Sounds queer to hear you call me Cicely, Rod¬ 
ney!’ she added, laughing at him. 

“I’ll have to learn to call you that in case we 
ever have company,” returned Rodney. “See, here, 
Cis, I sort of dread to say what I’m going to say; 
please help me to it. I thought I’d tell you after 
we were married, but you’re so keen to have things 
clear between you and Mr. Lucas, you’re so straight, 
I thought—Cis, if you were anyone else, anything 
else but what you are, I’d follow my own judgment, 
but you’re so crystal-clear—Cis, try to understand, 
and for pity’s sake don’t be prejudiced—There’s 
no sense in building up false theories of life—” 

Cicely was sitting erect and still, her lips parted, 
her very muscles eloquent of tensity of mind. 

“What are you stumbling over. Rod? What are 
you going to tell me?” she demanded. 

“When I talked to you about my life, told you 
about it, you did not notice that I said nothing 
about three years of it, when I was in Chicago,” 
said Rodney. 

Cis shook her head, groping backward in her 
memory to recall what he had said. 

“Only that you were there for three years; that’s 
all I remember,” she said. 

“How do you feel about second marriages, Cis?” 



198 


THE CABLE 


asked Rodney. “Would you hate to be a second 
wife?” 

“Oh!” Cis gasped, and sank back in her chair. 

“It’s not—not so nice,” she said hesitatingly. 
“To think you were married, actually married, 
fixed up a home before this one, brought a girl into 
it, loved her—Oh, Rod, were you? Were you— 
married—before?” 

Rodney nodded. “Yes, Cis, I was. I had to tell 
you; please, please, don’t mind, Cis!” 

For a few minutes Cicely was silent, shading her 
face with her hand; Rodney waited breathlessly for 
her to speak. 

At last she pushed back her hair with the hand 
that had rested against her forehead, smiled 
bravely, with a visible effort, and put out that hand 
to Rodney. 

“Poor dear!” she said softly. “I’m sorry! It 
rather knocked me up at first, but I won’t let it 
bother me long. All girls like to be the first, you 
know, but it’s really all right, as long as you love 
me dearly now. You told me that you’d fancied 
others before me, so I did half-way know, but mar¬ 
riage is different. I didn’t know you’d loved one 
well enough for that. I wish you’d told me sooner 
—But it was awfully hard to tell me at all, I see 
that, so I’m grateful to you for making yourself 
speak of it now. It is right to have told me before 
we were married; I don’t know just how I should 
have felt if I’d found it out later; I’m so keen on 
honesty.” 

Rodney winced. “I know, Cis; that’s why I had 


THE CABLE 


199 


to tell you. But that time was nothing like this; 
don’t you imagine I ever felt for any other girl whal 
I feel for you!” 

“Ah, poor Other Girl!” murmured Cis. “I don’t 
like to have you say what she would have hated! 
Better let me be a little bit sore, because I’ll fight it 
down, and I’m alive, and it’s like taking an ad¬ 
vantage of a dead girl to say what you did. Do you 
mind talking of her, Rodney dear? Would you tell 
me about her? Does it hurt to speak of her? What 
did she look like? Dark hair and eyes, because 
mine are not. Was she little and sweet, or tall and 
splendid? Rod, oh, my poor Rod, you suffered, 
you must have suffered when she—died! And 1 
could not be there to help you! I’d have helped 
you, dear. Will you tell me all these things? Can 
you bear it? Does it still hurt, Rod? If it does, 
oh, if it does, then this is not altogether my home! 
It is part hers, and so are you!” 

“I don’t care any more for her, Cicely Adair, 
than I care for your friend Nan’s cat—if she has 
one! Don’t you get notions! It was a mad infatua¬ 
tion; I might have known how she’d have turned 
out, but I was young, and—well, Cis, I got all 
snarled up with her. That’s not much like my love 
for you!” Rodney cried. 

“Oh me, oh dear!” Cis half sobbed. “I don’t 
know whether that makes it better; I’ve got to get 
used to this, and go off to think it out by myself. 
When did she die? Where did you bury her?” 

“In the Chicago divorce court,” said Rodney sav¬ 
agely. 



200 


THE CABLE 


“In—the—” Cis stopped short, her eyes dilated, 
staring at Rodney, her hands clasping the arms of 
“the lady of the house’s chair.” “Rodney Moore, 
she is not dead? She is alive? You—you!—have 
a living wife?” 

“No, no, no! Not yet, not yet, Holly! At Christ¬ 
mas I’ll have,” cried Rodney springing to his feet. 
“I am free, free as you are, free! I’m not married! 
I divorced her; she was as bad as they come, and 
I’m freed by my decree to marry. I’m no more 
married than you are.” He took a step toward her, 
but Cis held out both hands, warding him off. 

“She is alive. Don’t touch me!” she cried. “She 
is alive. No decree kills her; your wife is alive,” 
she gasped. 

“Cis, listen to me!” Rodney began, dropping on 
his knees beside Cicely, compelling her horror- 
stricken eyes to meet his eyes. “That girl was not 
fit to be any man’s wife. Do you understand? My 
marriage was a mockery from the first, and soon I 
hated her as much as I had been fascinated by her. 
From sly, hidden beginnings, she soon passed into 
open evil. She disgraced me while I was her hus¬ 
band, and since I have been free of her she has gone 
into utter degradation. There was not an instant’s 
question of my getting rid of her; court and com¬ 
mon humanity would grant me my decree of di¬ 
vorce. Are you going to tell me that I have a living 
wife? I have no wife. Would you make all my 
life desolate because she was what she was? Only 
the Catholic Church forbids marriage under my 
conditions. Do you see now why I want you to 



THE CABLE 


201 


shake off her laws, which do violence to every 
natural instinct of justice? Am I to suffer, live 
alone, denied wife and children? / suffer, who 
was not the offender? Is that sense? Plain com¬ 
mon sense forbids such foolishness. Throw off 
your prejudices; come out into freedom and hap¬ 
piness, my darling! Only your ridiculous Roman 
Catholic tyrants forbid it; God is on our side, not 
they! The reverend mayor, or a reverend aider- 
man can marry us as tight and as sacredly as that 
thin Jesuit can whom we met coming back from 
Pioneer Falls that Sunday. You’re not actually a 
Catholic. Cis, I’ve suffered enough. Make it up to 
me! With you my wife there won’t be a scar left of 
these wicked wounds! Cis, don’t you love me? 
Stop staring at me so, as if you’d never seen me 
before! Cis, don’t you know I’m Rory O’Moore, 
unchanged? That this is our home, and you my 
Holly-bride?” 

Cis did not move. She stared at Rodney stonily, 
trying to force her mind to grasp this thing that had 
fallen upon her when her happiness was at its 
height, made sweeter and holier than before by her 
new sense of the meaning of home-making. 

“Was this woman—your wife—was she a Catho¬ 
lic?” Cis managed to ask. 

“Well, I’ve no love for the Catholic Church, but 
I wouldn’t wish her on any Church,” Rodney 
laughed bitterly. “Religion wasn’t in her line, but 
her people were Catholic; she’d had baptism.” 

“You knew that, because you were married by a 
priest,” Cicely groped in her mind for what she 



202 


THE GABLE 


wanted to say. “They ask—about baptism. You 
were married by a priest?” 

“Yes. But, good heavens, Cis—” Rodney cried 
out. “What of that? These things have no power 
over us unless we give them the right to it. Priest 
or no priest, the laws of our country freed me; isn’t 
that enough?” 

“You have a living wife.” Cis repeated the 
words, changing her formula, but clinging to the 
sole idea that took shape in her stunned brain. 

“Cicely, Cis, my Holly, don’t, don’t, for the love 
of justice, for the love of me, benumb yourself with 
such idiocy! I have no wife! Cis, listen! I—have 
— no — wife! Will you leave me?” Rodney cried, 
leaping to his feet, for Cis had risen. “You can’t! 
Throw over the Church! Come to me! You love 
me; I worship you. I need you. Cis, are you ut¬ 
terly heartless? Church or me, and you hesitate! 
Me, your husband! Oh, Cis, look at this home of 
ours; stay in it!” 

Cis lifted both arms toward heaven with a great, 
tragic gesture, and turned in silence toward the 
door. Rodney leaped to reach it before her, but 
she raised her hand and looked at him. Her 
blanched face, surmounted by her glowing hair was 
deathlike and awful; it made Rodney fall back to 
let her pass, afraid to check her. 

“I will go away to think. I can’t think now. I 
will send you word when I know. I may come 
back. I cannot think. You have killed my brain. 
I don’t know—but you have a living wife! I will 
go away to think. Let me go, alone. I mu 9 t go— 




THE CABLE 


203 


alone. There is not even Cis Adair left to go with 
me. How strange to come alive and go out dead! 
Sfour wife is alive. Good-bye. Let me pass.” 

Cis spoke slowly, with great difficulty, yet clearly, 
and Rodney, awed and conscience-stricken to see 
her thus, fell back and let her go. Afterward he 
marvelled that he had done so, and cursed his folly, 
but under the spell of Cicely’s eyes he could not do 
otherwise. 


CHAPTER XIII 


DARKNESS 

C ICELY came out into the golden weather of that 
belated St. Martin’s Summer day which she 
had said had been sent to bless her path to her new 
home. The sunshine was as warm, the air as soft, 
the sky as beautifully blue as when she had crossed 
the threshold of her paradise, from which horror 
and her stumbling conscience were driving her, but 
she saw nothing of the beauty around her. 

Shut into her own mind, she walked unseeing, 
unaware, the interior darkness not lifting even so 
much as to reveal to her what and why she suffered. 
Or did she suffer? Something had happened to 
her; everything was obliterated; pain was not con¬ 
scious to her, nor loss, but in a vacuum that forbade 
breath, in a pit without ray or exit, she walked the 
Beaconhite streets, not knowing where she went, 
nor whom she passed. Something repeated cease¬ 
lessly: “A wife. A wife, alive; he has a wife. He 
is married.” She did not know why she so insisted 
upon this; it tired her, and many men had a wife. 
Who was it that had one whose having one so mat¬ 
tered to her? 

She could not think; she must think. That was it; 
she must think. Never before had she felt the need 
of thinking, but there was something that she must 

£04 


THE CABLE 


205 


think out. What it was, or why she must think 
about it, she could not tell, but the immediate, 
pressing necessity was to think; she must find a 
place to think in. Not her own room at Mrs. Wal¬ 
lace’s; she would not go there. The park? That 
might do, though she would like to go where no one 
could come near her, and the park would be full of 
strollers on such a Sunday as this. Solitude, a place 
to think, to gather up vague horrors which were 
lurking at the back of her brain, waiting to be as¬ 
sembled into definite agony. Cis dimly felt that 
agony was upon her, beginning, yet almost it would 
be better than this strange bewilderment which 
held for her but two cogent impressions. They rose 
up out of her chaos like spars of a shipwreck: 
Someone, Rodney Moore—but she could not quite 
grasp who Rodney Moore was, why his affairs 
affected her—had a living wife. And she must find 
solitude and think; there was something that she 
must clearly see, upon which she must decide. 

She turned the corner of a street, going on aim¬ 
lessly. The church had not occurred to her as a 
quiet place in which she could think, still less did it 
occur to poor Cicely, who had few of the habits of 
devotion, to seek the church for enlightenment, 
guidance, strength. She had never formed the cus¬ 
tom of making visits to the church, so now, be¬ 
wildered, benumbed, there was no deep-seated in¬ 
stinct to lead her thither when her brain was not di¬ 
recting her steps. Yet before her, as she came down 
this street into which she had turned, stood the 
church of St. Francis Xavier, the church to which 




206 


THE CABLE 


she repaired nearly every week for her compulsory 
Mass of Sunday. 

“That ought to be a quiet place,” Cis told her¬ 
self, and ascended the church steps. It was a large 
church, fine in architecture, not tasteful in decora¬ 
tion. It was much too strong-colored, too bizarre in 
the designs of its interior, yet it contrived to get an 
effect of splendor, in spite of its offenses against the 
canons of art, and it needed no contriving to give an 
instant sense of cheerfulness, of homelikeness, of 
kindness, and, withal, of devotion to those who en¬ 
tered it. 

There were but few people in it at this hour, 
when dinner and the companionship of the weekly 
holiday occupied most of its frequenters. Those 
who were there were kneeling at the farther end of 
the deep building, before the shrine of Our Lady 
of Lourdes, or the Sacred Heart altar, or before the 
Pieta that stood near the sanctuary rail, just within 
it. A half dozen, or less, knelt before the candela¬ 
brum which held the votive candles; they had each 
lighted one, and were praying wraptly that the boon 
which they implored by whispered prayer and rep¬ 
resentative little candle might be granted. 

Cis went into a pew close to the door, and from 
habit, but without consciousness of her action, knelt 
and made the sign of the cross because she had just 
come into church. She had long ago fallen into the 
way of thus kneeling on entering, and, first of all 
prayers, repeating the Act of Contrition. 

Now she began slowly, without knowing what she 
said, to whisper: “In the Name of the Father, and 


THE CABLE 


207 


of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. 0 my God, I 
am heartily sorry that—” Her lips ceased moving; 
she could go no farther. Heartily sorry—for what? 

Rodney Moore had a living wife; he was un¬ 
happy about it. So was she. She was sorry that 
this was so. There was that nice apartment which 
he had shown her, and those chairs; one was the 
chair for the lady of the house. What hurt her so? 
Was it her head? It did not seem to her that she 
had brought it with her, yet she felt a terrible pain; 
it seemed to be in her head. What was it she had to 
think about? Rodney was not dead. Why did she 
feel as though he were dead? Or was it that there 
was no Rodney? He had a wife, alive. He had 
none, so he had said, hut if she were alive? He 
must have forgotten, poor Rodney, that when one’s 
wife is alive—there she is: alive! Still the wife. 
She was not thinking, and she had come here to 
think; it was quiet, deeply, peacefully quiet, and 
somehow quieting, as well. She would be able to 
think here. 

Cis knelt staring at the altar, her face so white 
that an old woman, entering, turned as if to speak 
to her, then changed her mind and went on, shak¬ 
ing her head pityingly, saying to herself: “God pity 
and help her, the poor young creature!” as she 
ducked her edition of a genuflection toward the al¬ 
tar and knelt in a pew, rattling big brown rosary 
heads, supplemented by several large medals, on 
the hack of the pew against which she rested her 
gnarled hands. 

Was it that the henison was effective? It was not 




208 


THE CABLE 


long before the strange submergence of her con¬ 
scious self which had overwhelmed Cicely on hear¬ 
ing Rodney’s knell of her joy, broke and rolled 
back, leaving her soul bare to an agony that saw 
only too clearly, grasped only too acutely exactly 
what had befallen her. 

She was promised to marry within four weeks a 
man whose wife was still alive! 

Under the law of the country Rodney was en¬ 
tirely free. It was the woman, not he, who had 
broken the marriage vow, who had desecrated the 
marriage, sinned against herself, against Rodney, 
against God. No one would ask a man to condone 
her sin, unrepented, persisted in. The state issued 
licenses to marry; it protected the legality of mar¬ 
riage; under its laws children were made legiti¬ 
mate, their rights protected; marriage was a civil 
institution, the foundation of decent living, of 
homes which were the unit of the state; it was es¬ 
sentially the bulwark of civilization. When it 
ceased to be the foundation of decent living, when 
the sin of a parent endangered the legitimacy of 
children, when the home was corrupted, the yoke 
become a galling chain, even disgrace, then the 
state, which had approved the union and licensed 
it under its laws, revoked it, dissolved it, allowing 
the innocent partner of the union to go free, to 
make another marriage if he, or she, so desired; be 
perfectly free to enjoy the rights of every citizen, 
“life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” 

If there were states which went so far as to allow 
equal privileges to the guilty spouse; which gave to 


THE CABLE 


209 


one who had debased one marriage, freedom to con¬ 
tract another, or even others, that was all wrong, of 
course, but that consideration was uncalled for in 
this case. Rodney was wronged; he had been made 
free of the person who had wrecked his happiness, 
and that was just. 

Ah, but what was this, this other side to the 
divorce question? The teaching of Christ Himself, 
of His Church, continuing His teaching, practising 
it, though it bore ever so heavily upon a case pe¬ 
culiarly putting forth pleas for its exception; hold¬ 
ing it irrefrangible though it cost a kingdom, and 
plunged a whole noble and religious nation into 
heresy? 

Cicely’s mind was as keenly awake now as it had 
been benumbed at first. Teaching that she had 
heard without realization of hearing it, came to life, 
stored up within that memory which is one of the 
soul’s component parts. 

The Church’s laws were not flexible on funda¬ 
mental questions; they were made for all, and 
whether they were brought to bear upon a case 
which seemed to deserve the severity of their full 
application, or whether—as now—they seemed too 
cruel, they admitted no indulgence. Rodney Moore 
had married a girl who was baptized in the Catholic 
Church, as was he. He had married unwisely, from 
unworthy motives, but that did not lessen the guilt 
of the wife who had betrayed him. The Church 
would not insist that the union of marriage he 
maintained in such a case as this, but Rodney and 
his wife had spoken the vow which precludes the 


210 


THE CABLE 


taking of another man or woman in espousal till 
death has ended the duration of that vow. The 
state could annul the civil marriage which it had 
made, but far beyond its province lay the sacramen¬ 
tal marriage, so far beyond it that not even the 
Church, with its divinely delegated authority to 
bind and to loose could annul a marriage to which 
there was no impediment according to her laws; 
performed by her authority under God; vowed to 
God directly; sealed by her sacramental seal which 
cannot be broken till death has broken it. 

This knowledge of the Church’s position as to 
marriage came clearly before Cicely’s mind as she 
knelt, her eyes fixed upon the altar, which she did 
not see. With such vivid remembrance of what she 
had been taught by sermons, by reading, by ac¬ 
quaintance with Catholics like the Dowling fam¬ 
ily, whose talk on divorce she had heard and shared, 
for it is a subject that no modern American can es¬ 
cape, Cis marshalled the facts of the Catholic 
Church’s attitude toward divorce. She had heard 
words which returned to her, and she knew who it 
was that had uttered them. “For this cause shall a 
man leave father and mother and shall cleave to his 
wife; and they two shall be as one flesh. And he 
that shall marry her that is put away committeth 
adultery.” 

Strange that she should remember this! Cis won¬ 
dered at it; she could not ordinarily repeat texts. 
There was no divorce, not within the Church. Cicely 
knew now why she had repeated wearily those hor¬ 
rible words: “He has a living wife.” 


THE CABLE 


211 


Rodney had a living wife, and while she lived 
Cicely Adair could not be his wife, however wicked 
his wife had been—not in the eyes of the Catholic 
Church! 

There was the crux of the matter. In the eyes of 
the state, of the average American society, Cicely 
Adair, and still another after her, might be Rodney 
Moore’s wife for all his first misadventure! 

Rodney implored her to come out of the Church 
into freedom. Ah, yes, and more, far, far more— 
into his arms, into his home, into that lovable, 
cheery, blessed little apartment waiting for them! 

She had but to go to him, tell him that she was 
ready, that she would leave all to follow him—She 
checked herself; even in her thoughts she could not 
travesty the divine words which related to mar¬ 
riage, but to the sacrament of marriage. Not to leave 
Him did Our Lord bid His followers leave all to 
cling to a wife, but rather to come after Him and, 
thus coming, derive strength to cleave to one spouse 
in a union transcending the weakness of nature. 

Back upon its track Cicely’s mind travelled, 
leaving the thought of Our Lord’s teaching. Rod¬ 
ney bade her prove her love for him. He had re¬ 
minded her of how indifferent a Catholic she was. 
It was true. She rarely thought about her faith; it 
did not form an integral, vital part of her days. She 
kept to it, but she did not enjoy it, nor did she often 
draw near to its heart, nor know much about its de¬ 
votions, live in its calendar year. She dimly knew 
that some people did these things; Nan came nearer 


212 


THE CABLE 


to it than Cis realized, she imagined, but as a rule 
these things seemed to be fit for nuns. 

She need never take a definite step, like renounc¬ 
ing her faith overtly. All that she had to do was to 
marry Rodney. She would have to be married by a 
civil officer, or a minister; no priest could marry 
her, of course, and that would put her outside the 
Church. After that she would go into her own 
home, and live her life of complete devotion to 
Rodney. If she had children she would widen out 
to embrace them in her heart, hut Rodney first! 
Always, always Rodney first! She—they—could 
teach their children to be upright, kind, good citi¬ 
zens, good moral men and women. Rodney said it 
was ridiculous to delude yourself into thinking that 
more than this was needed, or that anyone really 
knew anything more about life and death than that 
a man must live in the world decently, and then 
when he died, if there was anything more for him, 
he’d be sure to get the good coming to him, because 
he had not made the world a worse place for any¬ 
one else. And if there were nothing beyond but a 
long, dreamless sleep, and pretty flowers springing 
out of your ashes—well! Then that’s all there was 
of it, and you would have played your part credit¬ 
ably and gone out leaving an honored name. 

Cecily saw Rod’s handsome, laughing face in her 
memory as it had looked when he had said this, and 
she heard his jolly, infectious laugh! Oh, how she 
wanted him, wanted him! The longing for him 
swept over her like physical sickness, and she shud¬ 
dered, turning cold. She had left him miserable; 


\ 



THE CABLE 


213 


she had deserted him. Deserted him in the home 
he was making for her; she was wrecking his home 
a second time as that other woman had wrecked his 
first home. She, Cis, was respectable in the eyes of 
the world, and that other was not, but was she any 
better than the outcast? 

Cicely raised her ring to her lips and kissed over 
and over again its glowing ruby. “The color of her 
love, of the warm blood of her great heart,” Rod 
had told her the ruby was. And she had been cold- 
hearted toward him, had failed him when he trusted 
her. He might have deceived her, have married 
her and not told her till afterward. How splendid 
ho was to be truthful, honorable toward her! 
Should she punish him for his virtues? Even a 
child is told that if it tells the truth it shall not be 
punished, but how cruelly, how wickedly she was 
punishing Rod, Rory O’Moore! 

She would go to him and beg his forgiveness; he 
would forgive her, remembering that she, too, had 
suffered, that his secret had shocked her beyond the 
power to think at first; Rod was always big, and 
kind. 

She would marry him. Even though a magis¬ 
trate married her and by so doing expelled her 
from Catholic communion she would marry him. 
Excommunicated! It did sound fearful! But words 
did not matter! She would not strike Rodney in 
the face, drive him from her with a blow upon his 
heart! 

Cicely’s eyes, fixed upon the altar, unseeing, their 
gaze turned inward, suddenly saw. Her gaze turned 


214 


THE CABLE 


outward, and she saw the small golden door upon 
which her set eyes had been resting, saw it, and saw 
the crucifix above it, a tall, vivid crucifix over the 
tabernacle door, under the tabernacle dome. And 
suddenly Cicely began to tremble violently and her 
icy hands clutched at the back of the pew before 
her. 

Who, then, would she strike in the Face? Upon 
Whose Sacred Heart would she deal the blow which 
drove Him from her ? 

Never again should she see that golden door open 
and her Lord come forth to her. Never again would 
a priest turn to her and bid her “Behold the Lamb 
of God.” Seldom, ah, seldom did she let the words 
be addressed to her now, but—never again? Ex¬ 
communicated ? 

She was a poor Catholic, cold, indifferent, ignor¬ 
ant, but she was a Catholic. She had held to her 
Faith, after a fashion, and she had known that she 
could never substitute another faith for it. For 
Rodney’s sake she would leave it, go to him, go 
from God! She would heal Rodney’s wounds, but 
she would join the rabble in the Garden, and betray 
her Lord! She would not kiss Him, as Judas had 
kissed Him, but she would kiss in bridal kiss the 
man whose acceptance meant her Lord’s rejection. 

Rodney, or her Lord? One or the other; never 
both. She had not thought just what it meant, this 
decision which she had reached upon a flood of 
human longing and love. She wanted Rodney. She 
craved for him as the body craves for food, the 
parched throat for water; she agonized remember- 


THE CABLE 


215 


ing his present pain, that she had inflicted it in re¬ 
turn for his honorable dealing with her. 

But now—she saw the Tabernacle. With her 

i 

soul she saw it, and she felt by prescience the deso¬ 
lation of the closing of its door, sealed by her own 
action. To be an outcast, excommunicated! 

Her mind, her torture could go no farther. In 
that throe her soul was born, but she could endure 
no more. 

How long she had knelt in the church she had no 
idea; she took no cognizance of her body, of its 
strained position upon the knees on the narrow 
kneeling-rest. It was growing dusk in the church; 
she must have been there long. There were more 
people moving up and down the aisles, and before 
the shrines; several were making the stations, some 
coming down the middle aisle, others going toward 
the high altar. Cicely saw none of these. 

She swayed on her tired knees, her aching spine 
no longer supporting her, and she crumpled up 
sidewise, falling over the back of the pew upon 
which her arms had rested, her head upon them in 
such wise that no one noticed that she had fainted. 
Father Morley had come out through the sanctuary, 
into the church, summoned by the little electric 
bell, its button placed under the rail, near the vo¬ 
tive-lights candelabrum. It called a priest of that 
Community to hear a confession when a priest was 
needed at another time than the regular days and 
hours upon which confessions were heard. 

A man had gone into the confessional when 
Father Morley took his place in the centre, and had 


216 


THE GABLE 


kissed and assumed the narrow stole which had 
hung across the door. The penitent took long, so 
long that some of the pious women kneeling at the 
side altars were interested in his case, and watched 
to see him emerge, speculating on the nature of his 
story; some of them said a little prayer for him that 
he would “come out all right,” for good women are 
always intensely interested in the reform of a pos¬ 
sibly bad man. 

At last the absolution had been given, the peni¬ 
tent lingered for a final question or two and Father 
Morley’s answers, then he departed to say his pen¬ 
ance and pray his prayers before the great Pieta— 
which the interested pious women thought sympto¬ 
matic. 

Father Morley folded his narrow stole, hung it 
again on the confessional door, and came out, clos¬ 
ing the low door carefully and noiselessly behind 
him. He came down the fast darkening church, 
walking with his long, easy stride, peering into the 
pews as he passed with his near-sighted gaze, look¬ 
ing vainly for a small book which he had lent to 
someone, and which that someone had telephoned 
him to say that she had left in a pew in the main 
aisle of the church, instead of returning it to the 
lay-brother at the house door, as she had set out to 
do. 

Thus Father Morley came up to Cicely as she lay, 
fallen over the pew back, held up from a complete 
fall by her arms across the back of the pew in front 
of her, and her back wedged against the pew in 
which she had knelt. 


THE CABLE 


217 


My daughter, are you ill?” asked the priest, 
pausing at Cicely’s side. As she did not answer, 
nor move, he bent down and touched her. Then 
he looked startled and turned her face toward him, 
lifting her slightly as he did so. “Cicely Adair!” 
he exclaimed aloud, instantly recognizing her, and 
remembering the name which she had given him. 
“My child, can you hear me? Are you ill?” 

The easing of her position, her raised head, 
brought Cicely to part consciousness. With the help 
of Father Morley’s hands, supporting her beneath 
her arms, she got upon her feet, looking at him 
dazed, white, staring. 

“Come out into the air, my dear,” said the Jesuit 
gently. “You are suffering. It is not bodily sick¬ 
ness, my poor girl! Let me help you out. Here, 
my hand under your elbow, so! That’s better. Now 
slowly; courage! Come into the pure, good air, 
Cicely Adair!” 

He led Cicely slowly and carefully out of the 
church, down the steps, through a small gate beside 
them, into a grassy yard. 

“This is not cloister,” Father Morley said. “Our 
parochial school children’s playground. Sit here, 
my child, on this bench. There is a bell; I’ll ring 
for Brother Feely to bring you a cup of coffee and a 
few biscuits. Don’t try to speak; you can tell me 
what you will later.” 

A lay-brother with a pale, patient face, and hair 
as red as Cicely’s own, came in response to Father 
Morley’s call, and quickly returned with a cup of 


218 


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the steaming beverage, and a few thin sweet biscuits 
on a plain white plate. 

“Sip this, my daughter,” said the Jesuit, with his 
benignant smile; “you are exhausted.” 

Cicely gratefully drank of the coffee, and revived 
as it coursed through her chilled body. She sat up 
after she had eaten and drank, and tried to smile at 
the priest. “You are very kind, Father Morley,” 
she said. “I must go. Thank you.” 

“Without giving me something in return?” 
hinted Father Morley. “Aren’t you going to give 
me a wee bit of your confidence? What has gone 
wrong with you, my child?” 

Cicely looked long into the steady, keen, sad, 
kindly eyes looking down into hers. She did not 
want to speak, but, characteristically, spoke the 
truth when she felt compelled to speak. 

“I’m shocked by what Eve found out to-day,” she 
said. “I’ve got to decide something. I may leave 
the Church; I don’t know. It’s that, or hurt some¬ 
one dearer to me than my life.” 

She waited for an explosion of protest from the 
Jesuit, but none came. Instead he said quietly: 
“Not much comparison, is there, between hurting 
a human being, and losing Almighty God, betraying 
your Master and damning your soul! But no one 
should decide a great matter hastily; you’ve felt 
this is the greatest of great matters, I see. That’s 
something. You couldn’t marry a man who had a 
living wife; all your decent Catholic womanhood, 
as well as your religion, is against it.” 

Cicely sprang to her feet. 


THE CABLE 


219 


“Father Morley, how could you know?’* she 
gasped. 

“Not hard to guess. I’ve been a priest, hearing 
confessions these twenty-five years, my child. Only 
an insuperable obstacle to your marriage could 
present to you the alternative you described. You 
never will call yourself any man’s wife, when you 
know you are not a wife,” replied Father Morley. 
“But this is no time to talk; you’re tired, and I 
dine in a short time. Think of it over night; ‘the 
night brings counsel,’ and pray to the Holy Spirit. 
You’ll not go home to your lonely struggle, of 
course; that would never do. I’m going to send you 
to Miss Miriam Braithwaite for to-night. She is an 
elderly woman; the cleverest, most entertaining 
person imaginable, but, what is far more important, 
she comes near to being a saint underneath her dis¬ 
guise of it! She is my great friend and reliance. 
Once more I summon Brother Feely, and he will 
telephone Miss Braithwaite, and she will drive over 
for you. You’ll enjoy your visit.” 

Father Morley made no opening for demur on 
Cicely’s part, but she tried to make one. 

“Father, I don’t know her! Oh, no! I can’t go! 
I’m going home,” she cried. 

“You’ll meet Miss Braithwaite within fifteen 
minutes, and know her within twenty minutes,” de¬ 
clared Father Morley, with a slight wave of the 
hand that dissipated Cicely’s attempt to resist him. 

He called Brother Feely, and bade him tele¬ 
phone Miss Braithwaite. 

“Tell her I want to send Miss Cicely Adair to her 


220 


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for the night. She is worn out, tell her; a thor¬ 
oughly good girl, whom she will like. Ask her to 
come over after her as soon as she can, please; Miss 
Adair is needing rest.” 

Cis sank back, unable to object; indeed she found 
this arrangement something of a relief. She 
dreaded a night alone in her room, and dreaded 
what she knew would lie before her, an interview 
with Rodney which would be beyond her strength. 
It was only much later that she realized that Father 
Morley had foreseen the same thing, and prevented 
it. He had the priest’s intuition which enabled 
him to know a great deal that he had not been told. 


CHAPTER XIV 


INDECISION 

ICELY waited the coming of her yet unknown 
^ hostess without much interest in the arrange¬ 
ment which Father Morley had not only made for 
her, but, so to speak, had carried by assault. She 
was so utterly tired in body and mind, so prostrated 
by the intensity with which she had been feeling 
for the past hours that the ability to feel was, for 
the time, burned out of her. 

She sat back against the garden bench, resting 
sidewise so that her arm lay across its back; her 
head drooped forward on her shoulder, waiting 
quiescent for Miss Braithwaite to come to fetch her 
away. 

Father Morley waited with her, but he did not 
speak to her. He paced the grass slowly, his open 
breviary in his hand, his lips moving as he read 
each syllable of the sonorous Latin, not slighting it, 
but dwelling on its beauties, now that he had time 
to read it leisurely. 

Cicely lightly dozed as she waited, falling into 
the half-submerged, half-conscious sleep of a sick 
person; she was spent with excess of emotion. 

She did not have long to wait, however. Miss 
Braithwaite evidently was accustomed to sudden 

221 


222 


THE CABLE 


summons from Father Morley, and to responding 
to them without demur, nor question as to what he 
asked of her. She told Cis later that “when it came 
to a call from Father Morley she was always pre¬ 
pared for the worst.” 

Now she stopped her coupe at the gate beyond 
the schoolyard’s high wall which shut the road 
from view. Cis did not arouse to hear her, but 
Father Morley heard the soft purr of her engine; 
its cessation and the slight jar of her brake; shifted 
a ribbon in his breviary to mark the place at which 
he stopped reading, closed his book and went 
toward the gate to welcome his adjutant. 

“Lost, strayed or stolen?” Miss Braithwaite thus 
asked of the Jesuit a statement of the present case 
upon which he had called her. 

“Neither—yet. Liable to stray, and finally to be 
lost. Badly strained by a contest in which she is 
neither victor nor vanquished, so far. You’re to 
take her home and arm her anew, as well as to treat 
her wounds; hospital case. Interesting and valu¬ 
able material,” murmured the priest, turning back 
toward Cicely. 

She aroused at the sound of their voices. Miss 
Braithwaite had nodded comprehendingly to 
Father Morley’s summing up, and had said aloud: 

“I nearly ran over a child coming here! Little 
sinner ran directly before my wheels after he had 
almost reached the curbstone, and I had made sure 
that I might safely go ahead! I do wish, even if 
people don’t highly value their children, that they 
would keep them out of the road. It’s most un- 



THE CABLE 


223 


pleasant to run one down! This bold buccaneer 
was about three years old, I fancy.” 

Cicely sat up and dropped her hands into her 
lap, staring at Miss Braithwaite. She saw a small 
person who, at first glimpse, gave the impression of 
being topped by a head out of proportion to her 
height, but this was due to the remarkable cast of 
her countenance, not to the fact. She had a broad, 
noble brow; keen, dark eyes, deep-set and not 
large, but so alive, so flashing and penetrating that 
they held anyone’s attention who saw them for the 
first time. Her nose was well-cut, somewhat large, 
thin, with a high arch, and her lips were strongly 
defined, the upper one meeting the lower one in a 
central point. It was the mouth of a person not un¬ 
sweet, but not given to what might be called pro¬ 
fessional sweetness; her chin was square-cut, and 
it lifted in a decided way as she talked. Her voice 
penetrated Cicely’s consciousness before she fully 
saw her, a voice of the highest cultivation, used 
without the least taint of affectation; neither low 
nor high, with pleasant, throaty notes, yet with a 
resonance that made it insistent, even at a distance. 
She spoke every syllable clearly; beautiful English 
pronunciation, with inflections suggestive of Ital¬ 
ian, speech so delightful that, though Cis was in no 
condition to get pleasure from it, it did enter her 
tired brain soothingly, and it drew her to the 
woman who was coming toward her with a friendly 
smile and a penetrating look. 

“Miss Braithwaite, this is Miss Cicely Adair. 
Cicely, my child, this is Miss Miriam Braithwaite. 


224 


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The most that I shall tell you of her is that she is 
the best prescription in my pharmacopoeia; you’ll 
have plenty of occupation in finding out just how 
the prescription acts. Cicely Adair is not happy. 
Miss Braithwaite; not fit to go to her boarding place 
alone to-night; she needs mothering. Fve told her 
that you would take her home with you and put her 
to sleep in one of your spacious rooms,” said 
Father Morley. 

Cicely arose, not quite steadily, and put her cold 
hand into Miss Braithwaite’s hand, which took it 
into a warm clasp. 

“My dear. Father Morley has great confidence in 
the most single of single ladies to impute to her 
mothering qualities, now hasn’t he? But I’ll be de¬ 
lighted to have you with me to-night; my maid is 
away, and I’m scandalously dependent upon her; 
not for service; for companionship! So if you’ll 
let me have your youth near me to-night it will be 
most opportune and welcome,” said the little lady, 
whose whole effect made absurd the idea of her 
being dependent upon anything created. 

“Thank you, Miss Braithwaite,” said Cis. “I’m 
not sure I ought to go; I ought not to bother a per¬ 
fect stranger, but Father—” 

“Perfect stranger! When we have the same 
Father? God, to be sure, but also Father Morley!” 
cried Miss Braithwaite. “Why, we’re sisters; you’re 
my little sister! Let me whisper to you, my dear; 
Father Morley must not hear, though lie’s not at all 
deaf. Father Morley looks mild; perhaps not too 
strong, but he’s an out-and-out tyrant! I do every- 


THE CABLE 


225 


thing he tells me to, nervously, on the bidding, lest 
he fall upon me and flay me! Of course you let 
him arrange everything for you; so did I when he 
had me called to fetch you! But it’s an all around 
good arrangement, we have to acknowledge that. 
He’s a beneficent tyrant; likely would behead you 
if you disobeyed him, but puts into your head 
things to do that make you better enjoy having a 
head.” 

Cicely smiled faintly, and turned to the priest 
with the suggestion of dawning ease and affection 
which this sort of talk was admirably adapted to 
awaken. She also felt singularly at home with this 
brilliant little woman, with the eyes that saw 
through one, the nose of a general, the lips and 
voice and hand of a generous soul. 

“Father Morley is very good to me; so are you,” 
she said simply. 

“Then shall we go home immediately and begin 
to rest you, my dear?” asked Miss Braithwaite, tak¬ 
ing Cicely’s hand with a strong, yet gently persua¬ 
sive grasp and turning toward the gate again. 

Father Morley walked beside Cis, bending his 
head toward her, not speaking, but as if he were 
communing with her without words. 

“Good night, my child,” he said when they had 
reached the gate. “I will not see you before eleven 
to-morrow; you will need to sleep late. After your 
first sleep you may waken for awhile, and then you 
will sleep into the morning. Miss Braithwaite will 
be within call; if you find yourself waking, sum¬ 
mon her.” 


226 


THE CABLE 


The wise priest well knew the greater likelihood 
of complete confidence in the night, rather than the 
day. 

“I will see you at eleven. If Cicely Adair is able 
to come here, bring her to me, please, Miss Braith- 
waite. If not, call me up and I will go to see her 
at your house.” 

“Do you want to see me, Father Morley? But 
there is the office; I must be at the office by half 
past nine anyway,” said Cis. 

“Call Mr. Lucas, and tell him, what is strictly 
true, that you are not able to report for duty to¬ 
morrow. I would tell him for you, but that an ex¬ 
planation from me would bias him against your ab¬ 
sence so powerfully that he’d rather send an officer 
to hale you to his office than permit your staying 
away.” Father Morley laughed, a quietly amused, 
inward laugh of enjoyment. 

“Lucas? Wilmer Lucas? Oh, I’ll attend to that!” 
cried Miss Braithwaite. “He and I clasp hands, in 
spite of the Roman shackles on mine. He knows 
that my grandfather was intensely Protestant, and 
he allows me a slight latitude for the sake of his 
honored memory. We often meet in Beaconhite 
affairs, and he regards me as a good citizen, which 
also helps to fumigate me! He owes me several small 
debts for favors received. I’ll call him up and tell 
him that I have his bright-haired secretary—are 
you his secretary? I didn’t know—in my keeping 
and will return her when she is better. Then Miss 
Adair will come to you at eleven, Father, unless I 


THE CABLE 


227 


call you up. Good night, Father Morley. Thank 
you for giving me a companion for to-night.” 

Father Morley opened the gate for them, and 
took Cicely’s hand in his, holding the gate open 
with his left hand. 

“Good night, my child,” he said gently. “May 
God have you in His keeping, and do you hold Him 
tight, keeping to Him. Only say in your heart: 
4 God help me!’ and it is done! No fear of failure, 
wrapped around in His light and His might!” 

Cis bowed her head instinctively to receive the 
blessing which this wonderful man gave to her, his 
face tender and pitiful, grave yet triumphant, as he 
feared for her, yet confidently hoped that she 
would let God have His way with her at last. 

Miss Braithwaite put Cicely into her car and fol¬ 
lowed her, placing herself behind the wheel, lib¬ 
erating the brake and setting the engine running. 

“Good-bye, Father,” she said. “Send St. Michael 
around to my house to watch over us through the 
night after you’ve said your night prayers, please. 
Thank you for letting me have this Cicely Adair.” 

Miss Braithwaite drove steadily, swinging into a 
fifteen miles an hour speed, and varying it but 
slightly as she turned from street to street, and 
struck out to a side of the city which Cis did not 
know well. There were dignified houses along the 
way, their grounds increasing in extent, their trees 
getting more abundant and taller as the coupe car¬ 
ried them farther from the street of the Jesuit 
church. Miss Braithwaite did not attempt to talk 


228 


THE CABLE 


as she drove, and Cis lay back restfully against the 
grey corduroy upholstery, finding it grateful to be 
in motion, borne, she did not know whither, with¬ 
out effort or responsibility on her part. Miss 
Braithwaite turned into the broad gateway of one 
of the finest houses which Cis had seen, and drew 
up before the entrance to the house, having tra¬ 
versed a long, shaded driveway. 

“Here we are. Miss Adair, at home quite safe and 
sound. I’m vain of driving, because they say it’s 
hard to teach an old dog new tricks and I learned 
only last year. I don’t do the idiot things men at¬ 
tribute to women drivers. Jump out, my dear, and 
tell yourself you’re coming home. You haven’t 
forgotten how to play house, have you? My man 
will come to take the car around to the garage. 
Come into the library; there’ll be a log fire on the 
hearth there. Here we are! Ah, I love to come 
home!” Miss Braithwaite, talking cheerfully, led 
the way across and half way down a great entrance 
hall. She threw open one of a pair of doors, letting 
Cis precede her into a high-ceiled, wainscoted 
room, with high book shelves built around it, 
bronzes and beautiful marbles on their tops, 
shadowy pictures above them, a glorious fire of 
three-foot logs glowing lazily on the hearth, its light 
playing over the bindings of the three thousand or 
more books which ranged every side of the room, 
except the space occupied by the fireplace. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Cis. “How beautiful!” 

“That’s right! You must love this room or 
there’s no saying how violently we may quarrel be- 


THE CABLE 


229 


fore the night is over,” said Miss Braithwaite, pull¬ 
ing up a deeply upholstered semicircular chair be¬ 
fore the fire, and gently pushing Cicely into it. ‘Tm 
so fond of this room that I’m debating how to get a 
bill before the legislature to give me more hours in 
the day to sit in it. I’m a busy woman, my dear, 
and sometimes I think I’m that old person in 
Mother Goose who ‘scarce ever was quiet.’ I hope 
one of these days to make myself a visit, spend a 
week quietly browsing beside this fire! My grand¬ 
father built the house, and began the library; my 
father added to them both. I’ve added only to the 
library, but isn’t it nice? Throw your hat and coat 
over on that straight inglenook chair, and lie back 
and watch the flames. Would you like to poke up 
the fire? It’s a harmless passion, but it takes strong 
hold of one! Take this poker and let air get be¬ 
tween the logs; it’s great fun! We will have supper 
in here, beside the fire, and play we’re in a moun¬ 
tain camp. Do you make believe? It keeps one 
going, I assure you. I wouldn’t dare let sensible 
people know what silly things I do! I’m supposed 
to be a dignified, executive, getting-elderly lady! 
But you look much too nice to be sensible! I think 
I like you, my dear. Hair like yours is enough to 
warm up the first liking! It is glorious, child! 
Then your name—Cicely Adair! Might be one of 
the seven sweet symphonic names in ‘The Blessed 
Damosel’!” 

Miss Braithwaite had chatted on, precluding the 
awkwardness of Cicely’s entrance into a strange 
house, the guest of an entire stranger. 



230 


THE CABLE 


Miss Braithwaite was supremely indifferent to 
the effect of her charm, but she could not help 
knowing that she had the gift of winning to her 
anyone toward whom she elected to put forth her 
powers to please. She had travelled far and lived 
long in Europe; had read all her life; was a 
gracious, vivacious hostess; had moved in the best 
society, the truly fine society of her own land and 
England, and, though not beautiful as a young 
woman, had been one whom all men honored, ad¬ 
mired, and whom many had sought to wed. Her 
mind was brilliant and—a rarer quality in a 
woman’s—was logical, with a true sense of justice 
and proportion. She was one whom only infinity 
could satisfy, and, becoming a convert to the Catho¬ 
lic Church before her thirtieth year, she had given 
over her great gifts to its service, was a factor in its 
work, showing it to many another, making her 
house, her wealth, her gifted self its consecrated 
tools. The priests used her for work which the 
women garbed in religious habits could do less well, 
which they themselves could not always compass. 
Her house had become a sort of perpetual salon; 
to it repaired people from distant cities; in it were 
organized many movements for good, and in 
Miriam Braithwaite the Church had a daughter 
whose mere existence sufficiently refuted slander 
against the Church, since she could neither be de¬ 
luded, nor tolerate anything less than the noblest. 

Now Cis, worn and terror-stricken, unable to feel 
with the keenness of some hours earlier, yet below 
her congealed surfaces reaching out after Rodney, 



THE CABLE 


231 


turning to him, pitying him, hungering for him, 
discerned in Miss Braithwaite the qualities which 
were hers so supremely, and began to lean out to 
her with a blind desire to get from her what was 
hers to give. 

“Please call me ‘Cis’—that’s what I’m called— 
‘Cicely,’ if you like it better,” Cis said. “I think 
I ought to tell you all about myself.” 

“SuYely!” Miss Braithwaite agreed cordially. 
44 Do you know anything so fine as to have someone 
trust you enough to confide in you? But supper 
first, my dear! I’ll ring for it, and we’ll eat here, 
as warm and cozy as two ladybugs. I hope you’re 
not too young to care about tea?” 

44 Twenty-two,” said Cis, with a tiny smile. 

‘"Well, that’s true, what you imply!” cried Miss 
Braithwaite, rising to touch a bell. “It’s not the 
years, but the palate. Tea is the most refreshingly 
restorative thing I know. Ah, Ellen,” she added as 
a maid entered. “Will you serve us supper here? 
Miss Adair is staying with me. Let us have the cold 
chicken, lettuce, small biscuits; the cream cheese, 
tea—without cream? Now that’s a sensible girl. 
Cicely!—fruit punch, with considerable grape 
fruit in it, and a dash of the claret; cake, the white 
cake, not the solid one. Perhaps that’s all; per¬ 
haps not. It will do to begin with. Place the table 
there, Ellen, please; push away the couch. And 
will you please bring the roses from the dining 
room?” 

Cis was amazed to find herself enjoying this sup¬ 
per, served beautifully by the quiet-footed, deft 



232 


THE CABLE 


Ellen, before the deep red glow of the smouldering 
logs. She ate heartily, and lay back in her low, 
cozy chair afterward, feeling better able to cope 
with life. But with the return of strength, came 
the revival of her longing for Rodney, the convic¬ 
tion that, cost what it would, she must return to 
him. “Now I must tell you, please,” Cis said to 
Miss Braithwaite, and she replied: “Now you may. 
It is better to tell me before you try to sleep.” 

She sat without looking at Cis, shading her face 
with her hand, which was one of strong individu¬ 
ality, rather than actual beauty; not speaking, but 
giving the impression of absorbed attention to the 
history which Cicely was giving her. She briefly 
passed over her early phases, amply telling Miss 
Braithwaite her pitiful love story. “And now I 
must decide,” she ended. “Rodney or the Church. 
It’s not fair, aside from anything else, to leave him 
when he was so truthful to me. But I want him! 
I must go to him! I left him in our home, alone! 
When I was in the church I thought, perhaps. I’d 
stick to the Catholic Church, but no, no, no! Tell¬ 
ing you about him has made me see. It must be 
Rodney; I’m his wife. See, that’s his ring, made 
for me, Miss Braithwaite.” 

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Braithwaite quietly. “A 
ruby. The Church wears red on the festivals of 
her martyrs. How good God is to you, how He loves 
you! In choosing Him you will save the poor fellow 
whom you love, but whom God loves more, my 
Cicely! Your sacrifice will bring Rodney back at 
last. Don’t you know that is the way these miracles 


THE CABLE 


233 


are wrought? How fine that it was such as you 
whom Rodney loved when he was an outcast from 
God! It might so easily have been a weak girl who 
did not love Rodney truly, tremendously, as you 
can, as you do, and so who would have renounced 
her Faith; sealed Rodney’s doom; gone with him 
into sin, degradation, the awful hatred of each 
other which waits upon those who debase love. 
With a living wife Rodney cannot marry. Cis, dear, 
you are not really hesitating! You are not going 
into that horrible abyss. It is only your torn heart 
crying out, but your will is God’s. Little Cicely, be 
glad that you can suffer for Our Lord. It is He 
Who stands between you and the breaking of His 
unmistakable law. He is going to bring Rodney 
back because you will ask it, who have offered Him 
the sacrifice of a broken heart. Don’t let yourself 
imagine that you are hesitating in your loyalty to 
Our Lord! Fancy, turning Our Lord out of your 
life for the sake of anyone, or everyone whom He 
has made! Wouldn’t it be a lonely world, dear, if 
we drove out of it that great white Figure which 
towers above us, just before us at every step ? Cicely 
Adair to say: 6 Go away from me. Lord Jesus, with 
Your wounds and beauty! With Your love, beyond 
anything that I can mean by love!’ Unthinkable, 
child! Come now, dear one; come to bed. Sleep 
and rest, for never, never will you be a traitor, be¬ 
tray your Lord. We won’t talk longer to-night. 
You’re nearly exhausted again. I’ll put you to bed, 
child, and thank you for letting me shelter someone 
who wears a ring of the martyr color, and is going 


234 


THE CABLE 


to suffer to the end for loyalty to Our Lord Who 
died for her—and me!” 

Miss Braithwaite had gone on at length, for 
Cicely was sitting erect, wide-eyed, her face chang¬ 
ing as she listened, and Miss Braithwaite knew that 
she was winning her to great heroism. It was not 
the first time that Miriam Braithwaite had fought 
and won a like battle for the right. 

“Ah, don’t, don’t! I can’t!” Cicely cried, but she 
arose and threw herself on her knees before Miss 
Braithwaite, clasping her tight, shaking with sobs 
which brought no tears; broken, weak, yet with a 
dawning strength. 

Miss Braithwaite helped Cicely to her bed, 
brushed and plaited her abundant hair; it fell 
around the girl in red masses of glory. Then she 
put Cicely between fragrant sheets, switched off 
the strong lights, switched on a low reading lamp, 
its hooded screen turned toward herself, dark 
toward the bed, and began to read the story of the 
Passion from St. Matthew’s Gospel. “She cannot 
deny her Lord in the morning if she sleeps with 
this in her ears,” Miss Braithwaite thought, reading 
in her beautifully modulated voice the infinite 
pathos of those selfless hours. 

Cicely slept deeply, wakening but once, and then 
not to lie awake as Father Morley had foreseen her 
doing, but falling off again into the profound sleep 
of complete exhaustion. 

She arose in the morning steadier in nerves; the 
first poignancy of her agony laid for the moment, 
but sure to leap up again to tear at her. 


THE CABLE 


235 


After a delicious breakfast in Miss Braithwaite’s 
pretty morning room, her hostess arose. 

“It will soon be eleven, Cicely dear. You are 
quite fit to go to Father Morley? I need not ask 
him to come here?” she said. 

“I could go there, but why does he want me?” 
asked Cicely. 

“I never ask why Father Morley wants me; Fm 
too grateful to be allowed to see him,” said Miss 
Braithwaite smiling. “He is the most saintly per¬ 
son I have ever known, and his father, a convert, 
once an Episcopalian clergyman, was a confessor of 
the Faith, who suffered for it. This saintly son was 
his reward, one of his rewards! I’ll write three tiny 
notes. Cicely, then we’ll go in my coupe to ask 
Father Morley himself, what he wants of brave 
Cis!” 

At half past ten Miss Braithwaite and Cis set 
forth, “not to risk keeping Father Morley waiting,” 
Miss Braithwaite said. 

“I’ll leave you here, and return for you,” she 
told Cis, stopping her car before the Jesuit house 
and school. “I have two people whom I ought to 
see this morning, if it is at all possible. I’ll be back 
here not later than noon, I hope. But wait for me; 
I won’t fail you. One never is able to make a posi¬ 
tive engagement to the minute, when a car is in¬ 
volved in its keeping.” 


CHAPTER XV 


DECISION 


HE lay-brother who responded to Cicely’s sum- 



* mons on the bell was old, slow moving, kindly, 
but remote from daily affairs. He was probably in¬ 
ured to the coming of harassed people in hot 
haste to see one of the priests, and had learned to 
feel that haste was unnecessary, trouble but fleet¬ 
ing. 

“Father Morley is expecting someone; he told me 
to say that he could not see anyone but her till after 
dinner. Would you be her? Cicely Adair was the 
name,” the old brother said. 

“Yes. Father Morley told me to come at eleven,” 
replied Cicely. 

“It’s prompt you are,” commented the brother, 
raising his hand for Cis to listen to the slow striking 
of a clock. “Go into that parlor yonder, the third 
one down; the first two are occupied.” 

Cis obeyed, and found herself in a narrow room, 
longer than was in good proportion to its width, 
furnished in a strictly utilitarian manner. A table 
stood in the centre, its top inset with green leather, 
a drawer running its length. Three cane-seated 
straight chairs, and one cane-seated armchair con¬ 
stituted the furniture of the room; on one side of 
the wall was a copy of a Murillo Madonna with a 


2S6 


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237 


pretty, blank face and too little chin; opposite to it 
an engraving of the then-reigning Pope. 

Father Morley did not keep Cis waiting five min¬ 
utes; he had been awaiting her. He entered with 
a smile, gave her one sharp look, and held out his 
hand. 

“Good morning, my dear. You look better; I 
hope you are somewhat rested?” he said. 

“Yes, Father. I slept hard. Miss Braithwaite 
was very kind,” Cis said. 

"‘When was Miriam Braithwaite otherwise, I 
wonder!” Father Morley said. “Tell me exactly 
what you think of her house and of her.” 

“Oh, the house!” Cis regained something of her 
animation as she repeated the words. “It is the 
most beautiful, and at the same time the dearest 
house in the world! That library! Full of books!” 

“It surely is. Have you found out that The 
library’ in many houses has no books in it?” Father 
Morley smiled at Cis as if he were sharing a pleas¬ 
ant bit of humor with her. “The Braithwaites have 
been book-lovers for generations. Well, and your 
hostess?” 

“She is wonderful,” cried Cis heartily. “She is 
the finest lady I ever saw, but she doesn’t bother 
about it one bit. She makes you feel as though 
she’d do anything, and not be afraid; she’s daring, 
as if she was riding a spirited horse, yet she is pious 
—well, I don’t know exactly how she is pious! As 
if she rode that horse of hers right up to heaven 
and nothing could stop her!” 

Father Morley flashed upon Cis a look which she 


238 


THE CABLE 


could not understand; it was surprised and de¬ 
lighted. 

“My dear child, that is an inspired characteriza¬ 
tion!” he cried. “You have precisely hit off Miriam 
Braithwaite. If you can see that, we shall have you 
riding after her, her squire, upon her knightly er¬ 
rantry to eternity. Admirable, my child! I think 
you, too, are one who would greatly dare. You are 
to be a force for God in a world that needs that. 
And now, are you ready to tell me all about it, and 
let me give you a hand into the saddle for your 
own brave riding heavenward?” 

“Yes, Father. Fd rather not tell you, but if I 
hadn’t made up my mind to it I wouldn’t have come 
to see you,” said Cis. “Do you remember that I 
met you one Sunday coming away from the fire in 
those tenements in Harvest Street? And that I was 
with a young man ?” 

“Who was good looking and ready-tongued, 
whose name was Moore, but who told me that he 
had left the Church? Naturally I remember find¬ 
ing one of my girls under those influences,” the 
Jesuit said. 

“I am engaged to him,” said Cis. “We were to 
be married on Christmas eve; my birthday is 
Christmas, and we have a lovely little apartment 
partly furnished. But—” Cis stopped. 

“Yes? But, my child? You were to have been 
married? Past tense? You have learned that you 
cannot marry?” suggested Father Morley. 

“Rodney has been true and honorable; he could 
not bring himself to marry me without telling me,” 


THE CABLE 


239 


Cis cried with a piteous look of appeal to the priest 
to acknowledge this fineness. “He had been mar¬ 
ried before; he is divorced. But his wife is dread¬ 
ful ; he couldn’t stay married to her. He has an ab¬ 
solute divorce; he can marry again.” 

“Of course you know that he cannot,” the Jesuit 
quietly corrected her. “He has the legal right to 
marry, I’ve no doubt, and we all have the tragic 
power to cast off our allegiance to God, but he can¬ 
not marry as you and I understand marriage. The 
Church does not demand the continuance of mar¬ 
ried life when it is outrageously degraded by one of 
the spouses, but you know that it is not within her 
power to annul the relation which lasts till death. 
Rodney Moore must endure his lot under the law 
which no pope nor council promulgated; God In¬ 
carnate declared it solemnly. Laws are for the gen¬ 
eral good, my child; they often bear hard on the in¬ 
dividual, but that does not abrogate them. Moore 
was married to a nominal Catholic? Both baptized? 
Married by a priest?” 

Then, as Cis bowed her head to each interroga¬ 
tion, Father Morley shook his head. “I am pro¬ 
foundly sorry for you, my daughter, but let us re¬ 
joice that the young man had left alive in him the 
decency not to deceive you. You are saved from a 
position which you would have assumed inno¬ 
cently, not knowing that the man was married, yet 
which would have been unfathomable wretched¬ 
ness when you discovered the truth, that you were 
unmarried; only sheltered by the feeble arm of the 
state, which has no jurisdiction over the sacra- 


240 


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ments. My child, I hardly know whether to be 
more sorry for your present suffering, or more glad 
that you are saved from far, immeasurably far, 
worse torture.” 

“Father Morley, you don’t understand,” Cis pro¬ 
tested. “You talk as if it were all off; it isn’t! I 
left Rodney after he told me, and I promised him 
to think it out, and tell him what I decided. I was 
shocked, horrified; I don’t mind owning that, but 
he is perfectly splendid. I love him, oh, I love 
him! He says we build up all these ideas; that it is 
ridiculous to torment ourselves with these laws of 
the Church. He says God is not so unjust; he says 
that we should be truly—and, oh, how happily!— 
married. He wants me to come out bravely and 
marry him in the mayor’s office, or somewhere, and 
be with him forever.” 

“You mean for years, when you say forever,” 
Father Morley reminded her, allowing no note of 
disturbance to creep into his voice. “ ‘Forever’ 
is precisely the wrong word there. In point of 
fact it would be strictly a temporal union; I 
doubt its outlasting to old age, but it would most 
certainly not be forever, eternal! You know, Miss 
Adair, that people easily drift into the habit of 
divorce. This man would not be bound to you by 
stronger bonds than his inclination. The marriage 
made in the mayor’s office can easily be set aside in 
one of the lower courts. The Church, you see, 
alone safeguards the woman. Wicked though this 
young man’s wife may be, probably is, still her 
marriage is safeguarded for her to repent within its 


THE CABLE 


241 


walls. Her husband can repudiate her degrada¬ 
tion, but he cannot replace her. You, if you went 
to live with him, pronounced his wife by a city 
official, would not be safeguarded at all, although 
you might not be the scorned woman that his wife 
is. Look you, Cicely Adair, you would not be bet¬ 
ter than she! With full knowledge you would re¬ 
ject your God and profane your own soul by the 
breaking of His law.” 

"‘Father Morley, do you mean that I—that I 
would be—would be—like her?” gasped Cis. 

“Perhaps far worse,” said the priest. “You do 
not know her temptations, her enlightenment, her 
instruction; she may have been weak and wretched, 
rather than deliberately wicked; you don’t know. 
But you, clear-eyed, instructed, independent, able 
to look after yourself, you are dallying deliberately 
with good and evil, weighing both. If you denied 
your God what excuse would you give Him when 
you saw Him at last? That man tells you to come 
out from the Church bravely! Bravely! Faugh! 
That is not courage; it is cowardice, the coward who 
will not face pain for the sake of the Lord Who 
bore so much for her! A coward, I tell you! And 
do you realize that this country of ours is honey¬ 
combed with the divorce evil? That homes are 
wrecked, children made destitute, men and women 
sunk into vileness because they will not be denied 
their successive fancies, and that they profane mar¬ 
riage because they will not bear the brand of their 
true label? Will you tolerate the idea of joining 
their ranks, of helping to spread the poison which 




242 


THE CABLE 


eats away the very foundation of civilization? And 
then call that brave? Benedict Arnold tried to be¬ 
tray Washington and the gate to the north. What 
would your treason betray? You are disloyal, even 
to your land, when you do not set your face against 
that which is undermining her. Don’t let yourself 
call your temptation by pretty names. It is not 
courage, but cowardice. It is not being married by 
a magistrate, for they cannot marry; it is being 
licensed to be called Mrs. Rodney Moore, but re¬ 
maining the shamed Cicely x4dair.” 

“Father Morley,” poor Cicely’s voice shook with 
dry sobs, “don’t you see? Rod is great; he is not 
bad. Didn’t God Himself give him to me to love?” 

“Possibly; I don’t say no,” said the priest gently. 
“There are many strange ways by which souls are 
led home. But decidedly God did not give Rodney 
to you to marry, for he is not free to marry, and 
God does not want you to help Rodney to go lower. 
Perhaps he is given you to love and to save by sacri¬ 
ficing for him your happiness; it looks to me prob¬ 
able. Evidently Rodney has good in him, or he 
would not have told you that he was married, until 
he had you in his power. I can see how you love 
him when you can entertain an idea so repugnant 
to you as denying your Faith for him. This is your 
way of salvation, and in taking the right turn you 
can offer to God your pain; it will plead for grace 
for Rodney, cut off from it by his own act.” 

“I thought of that, Father,” whispered Cis. “But, 
oh—never to see him? Never, never? This is my 


THE CABLE 


243 


en g a g emen t ring; Rodney made the design; I am a 
Christmas child.” 

The priest bent forward better to see it; his 
vision was short. 

4 ’A beautiful ring, my child; a beautiful design, 
beautifully wrought, but I see in it far more than 
the Christmas thought of your nativity which Rod¬ 
ney Moore meant to embody. It is the ring of 
prophecy. Red, the color of the martyrs; the 
heart’s blood upheld by thorns, but therein glowing 
and burning celestially. Yes, my child, it is indeed 
your betrothal ring!” 

Cis lifted her hand closer to her own eyes, 
dimmed with tears, and studied the ring as if it 
were new to her. Her hand shook so that the beau¬ 
tiful ruby emitted gleams of light, emphasizing 
the priest’s interpretation of it. It’s wearer’s grief 
made it more beautiful. 

For some time there was silence in the bare little 
parlor. Father Morley spoke no word; he left Cicely 
to absorb the words which he had spoken to her, 
spoken in his low, thrilling voice, straight to her 
soul. He ran through his fingers the beads of the 
rosary which hung from the black braid girdle that 
strapped his cassock, not speaking, praying for the 
soul before him fighting, tossing on black waters 
into which he could not enter. As each soul must 
struggle alone in mortal danger, seizing or rejecting 
aid, so this priest could only stand on the shore 
ready with powerful help, but he could not force 
the issue. 


244 


THE CABLE 


At last Father Morley arose and crossed the nar¬ 
row room. He took from the wall a crucifix which 
Cicely had not noticed in taking account of its fur¬ 
nishings ; it hung back of where she was sitting. It 
was a rare, a wonderful crucifix; the livid Figure 
upon it was marvellously carved with an expression 
of utter agony, dominated by a supreme love. This 
crucifix the Jesuit took from its nail, and, coming 
back, he bent over Cicely, holding out to her the 
cross. 

She dropped her shaking hands into her lap, and 
lifted her eyes, first to the crucifix, then, piteously, 
to the kind, insistent face above it which looked 
down on her with pity yet with the assurance of 
awaiting good in the deep-set eyes. 

“See, Cicely Adair, what was done for you. Can 
you count what you bear for Him? Can you refuse 
Him, especially that He promises surely that He 
will fill your soul with such joy as you have never 
known, if you hold to Him? Look, child, at the 
wounds; are you going to clinch your hands, like a 
niggard of the gift He asks? See the Side, riven 
that you may know what His Heart is! Will you go 
out from Him into shame, be an outcast from His 
altar, excommunicated? Cicely Adair, these lips 
are still athirst for the draft you hesitate to give 
them. Are you going to hold up to them vinegar 
and gall—again? You must give up Rodney; you 
must not betray your Lord; you must put that 
blood-red ruby at the foot of the cross. You must 
not delay. What is your answer, my child?” 

Cicely remained silent, trembling so that her 



THE CABLE 


245 


whole body shook, but tearless, and all the time 
Father Morley waited, holding before her eyes the 
eloquent crucifix to plead with her. 

Suddenly Cicely cried out with a long, low, heart- 
wrung cry, and sprang up, falling on her knees, her 
face bowed in her hands. 

“I can’t—I can’t—leave Him!” she said. 

Father Morley misunderstood. 

“Child, you must!” he said. “You must leave 
him.” 

Cicely looked up, and a queer, dazed smile 
passed over her miserable face. “Oh, you don’t 
mean that! You mean Rodney! I mean God. I 
can’t, I can’t leave God,” she cried, and caught her 
breath in a strange little laugh, wholly like the Cis 
who could not help recognizing humor, however 
unmerry her tragic mood. 

Father Morley smiled. His relief was unspeak¬ 
able; he had won. He knew that if this girl chose 
she would abide by her choice; he knew that Cicely 
Adair was safe. And he felt a new, moving pity for 
her that she could smile at his urging her to forsake 
God, misunderstanding her pronoun, though the 
lips which twisted into the attempt to smile had just 
spoken the doom of her longing love for her lover. 

“God bless you, my daughter, my brave, true 
girl!” the priest said. “Come, rise up. How really 
you have arisen! Shall we go into the church? I 
think we both should thank God, thank the Holy 
Spirit that has guarded you and inspired you. Will 
you not go to confession, Cicely? To-morrow 
morning you must receive the Lord to Whom you 


246 


THE GABLE 


have remained faithful. And then come to Him as 
nearly every day as you can, for He will carry you 
over the dark patch of roadway before you, into 
that bright light just beyond. Come, my dear, into 
the church. Shall I ask one of our Fathers to hear 
your confession? There are two or three in the 
house, Fm sure.’" 

Cis let Father Morley help her to her feet, as she 
said: 

“Don’t you hear confessions, Father? I don’t 
have to go twice, do I ?” 

“No, my dear; only once to-day!” Father Morley 
smiled at Cis, who, this time, did not know why he 
looked amused. “I thought you might prefer some¬ 
one else to me. Come, then.” 

“Miss Braithwaite said she would come after me 
here,” said Cis. “Perhaps I ought to wait for her.” 

“To be sure; she would come after you!” Father 
Morley cried admiringly. “She never half does 
anything! I’ll tell the brother where you are; she’ll 
look for you in the church, though I’m quite sure 
she would look for you there anyway, even though 
no word were left for her.” 

Three quarters of an hour later Miss Braith¬ 
waite turned her car around before the church. 
Cicely sat in the corner, her elbow on the top of 
the upholstered box which was behind the driver’s 
seat, her head supported by her hand. She was 
quiet, but Miss Braithwaite hardly needed the re¬ 
assuring smile which Father Morley gave her from 
the church step where he was seeing them off to tell 
her that Cicely was at peace. Her face was worn 


THE CABLE 


247 


and profoundly sad, but there was a new quality in 
its sadness, the serenity of a right decision. 

On the way to her house Miss Braithwaite hardly 
spoke. Cis had feebly protested against returning 
there, but Miss Braithwaite had decisively told her 
that there was no question of her going elsewhere, 
at least till after New Year’s. For one thing, her 
maid would be away for the rest of that week and 
Miss Braithwaite wanted someone to talk to; after 
that she expected to have grown so accustomed to 
talking to Cicely that she must keep her on. 

Cis smiled, seeing the kindness that wanted to 
avoid thanks; too weary to discuss it; at heart re¬ 
lieved that she might stay in this peaceful and 
noble house, under the spell of its noble, though 
somewhat eccentric mistress. 

At lunch Miss Braithwaite told Cis about the 
two cases which had occupied her that morning, 
and she succeeded in interesting the girl in spite of 
her preoccupation with her own thoughts. Miss 
Braithwaite’s incisive English, clear-cut, finished, 
like a collection of cameos and intaglios in words, 
fascinated Cicely’s ear, drawing her mind on to in¬ 
terest in the matter behind the speech. 

“Would you rather go to your room, or will you 
keep me company before the fire in the library. 
Cicely?” asked Miss Braithwaite as they arose from 
the table. 

“May I talk to you awhile?” asked Cis. 

“All the afternoon; I’ve nothing on, and hoped 
you’d linger with me,” replied Miss Braithwaite, 
putting her arm around the girl. 


248 


THE CABLE 


Thus she led her into that dusky, glowing room 
which had so charmed Cis on the preceding eve¬ 
ning, and again put her into the deep chair of that 
first acquaintance. 

“Miss Braithwaite, I’ve been to confession,” Cis 
said abruptly. 

“That accounts for the new quiet, an atmosphere 
of peace about you, Cicely dear,” said Miss Braith¬ 
waite, leaning over and putting her hand on the 
girl’s bright hair. “You have enlisted! Thank God 
for that. Don’t imagine the victory is won, but 
your side can’t lose, you know; it’s only a matter of 
days and weeks! Then your banner on the tower!” 

“Yes, Miss Braithwaite,” said poor Cis somewhat 
forlornly. “I am thankful, you know. Only— 
What must be done I’d better do as quickly, as fast 
as I can. I promised to let him—let Rod hear from 
me. He has no idea where I am. He will have 
looked for me everywhere that I might have been, 
but he’ll never guess I’m here. He is half mad by 
now. I must write him and send him this ring. I 
must tell him it is good-bye. Miss Braithwaite, I 
can’t see him! I couldn’t bear what he would say 
to me. I’m afraid to see him, that’s the truth, but 
it would kill me to say good-bye, see him go away— 
I can’t stand it!” Cis’s voice rose on a hard, sharp 
note, and Miss Braithwaite laid her own hand over 
Cicely’s. 

“I know, I understand. I’ll keep him off you. 
Write him here, now, dear Cis, and inclose the ring. 
Don’t harass yourself by writing a long letter; the 
whole matter can be condensed into a few words. 


THE CABLE 


249 


You have chosen God; you are true to your first 
promises; that is all. But be sure to tell him how 
fully you appreciate his truth in dealing with you, 
albeit he spoke tardily, for we do not forget that we 
want to bring Rodney right, and it will infuriate 
him if he thinks that you do not attribute to him 
the good that was in him when he gave you the 
chance you are taking to free yourself from a wrong 
position,” said this good woman, patting Cicely’s 
hand as mothers pat their babies to sleep. 

“Yes, Miss Braithwaite; I’d thought that would 
be what I must do,” said Cis. “I have nothing with 
me, you know. Have you a pen that won’t be 
spoiled by another person’s using it? It ruins pens 
to lend them; I know that.” 

“Plenty of pens, besides the one that I guard like 
a seven-headed monster!” declared Miss Braith¬ 
waite rising with an alacrity that forbade Cis’s con¬ 
sidering the coming note in its proper light. “Come 
to my desk over here, and take any pen you like, 
save that one.” 

Cis followed her, and took the straight chair 
which stood before the desk. 

She wrote slowly, pausing often, passing her hand 
over her eyes frequently, as if she could not see, 
but there was no moisture on the fingers afterward. 

She laid before Miss Braithwaite the completed 
note, saying only: 

“Please tell me if it is wrong in any way. I hope 
he’ll know that it is hard to write him this. Decem¬ 
ber 1st, isn’t it? Christmas eve is very near.” 

Miss Braithwaite read; she had never seen 


250 


THE CABLE 


Cicely’s writing before, but she knew that this ir¬ 
regular, wavering hand could not be the usual writ¬ 
ing of this extremely definite girl with the strong, 
vivid face, the bright, radiant red hair. 

“Dear Rodney:” the note ran. “I cannot marry 
you because you cannot marry me. It cannot be a 
marriage so I must go away, never come to the dear 
apartment again. I will not disobey God. If He 
helps me, I will die first, and, Rod, oh, Rod, this is 
like dying! You will be angry, and say that I do 
not love you, but if you try to remember me as I 
was, you will know that I love you. Perhaps if I 
loved you less I might not care so much to do right. 
I am sending you the ring. It was not a holly berry, 
but the heart’s blood of your Christmas Cis that the 
ruby meant. Dear Rod, I bless you for your 
truthful dealing with me, that you would not trick 
me into the marriage which would never be a true 
one in the eyes of either of us, for we were both 
Catholics. I will try to be a better one so that God 
will hear me beg Him to bless you and bring you 
back. Will you please not try to see me, dear? 
Nothing that you could say would make me believe 
that it was right to marry you when you have a liv¬ 
ing wife, but the struggle to keep right is too hard 
on me, and I could not see you go away forever and 
live through it. I’ve borne all I can. So don’t see 
me, my dearest, but don’t forget me. Good-bye— 
it means God be with you, you know. Cis.” 

“It is quite right, dear girl,” said Miss Rraith- 
waite gently, touching the piteous little letter softly, 
as if it were a dead child. 



THE CABLE 


251 


Cis drew off her ring and kissed it many times. 
Then she dropped it into Miss Braithwaite’s lap. 

'’‘Will you wrap it up in the letter and send it for 
me?” Cis said. “You are good to me, Miss Braith- 
waite. Will you teach me how to be this new Cis? 
The world used to be full of sounds; it seems to be 
quite still and empty. I suppose when you’re dead 
it’s like that. T don’t know which way to walk.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


WITNESSING 





lyriSS BRAITHWAITE had to waken Cis in the 
morning to get her up in time to drive with 
her to St. Francis Xavier’s for Mass. 

It was a Mass of renunciation and espousal, a 
communion that pledged Cicely to turn from her 
forbidden love for Rodney to allegiance to God, 
yet she felt this but dimly. She went through the 
Mass dutifully, but humbly; she realized that she 
was vowing herself and that her vow was then ac¬ 
cepted. Her will acquiesced, but at least one of the 
other powers of her soul was atrophied. Below her 
surfaces pain waited her awakening; she willed her 
martyrdom unfalteringly, but there was for her 
none of the martyrs’ triumphant joy. Yet she re¬ 
ceived the Lord Who had once raised a maiden from 
the dead, and, groping for Him, found Him, how 
truly she did not then know. 

“I must go to the office,” Cis said suddenly to 
Miss Braithwaite at breakfast. “I wonder why I’ve 
only just thought of it? How could I forget! It is 
half past nine already. Miss Braithwaite, what shall 
I do? Ought I telephone Mr. Lucas first, ask him 
if he still wants me to come? You had me excused 
for only one day.” 

“No, my dear, I didn’t,” said Miss Braithwaite 


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253 


promptly. “I didn’t specify the length of your ab¬ 
sence. I told Mr. Lucas that Cicely Adair was not 
at all well, could not possibly take up her duties, 
but that if she weren’t able to resume them in less 
than a week he should hear from me again. He was 
entirely amiable, bade me let him know, also, if 
you needed anything that he could procure for you. 
So you are perfectly all right to be absent again 
to-day. If you feel like going down to-morrow I’ll 
drive you down myself; we shall see!” 

“How good you are to me, Miss Braithwaite!” 
cried Cis. “And I never shall be able to do the 
least thing for you!” 

“Don’t be too sure of it!” cried Miss Braithwaite. 
“I have designs on you! A girl of your sort can do 
no end of things for me, a proxy me, who is far 
more important than the me direct. There are sev¬ 
eral things near and dear to my heart which are 
more interesting and important than a fusty, aging 
maiden lady. Cicely Adair. For instance, I can 
imagine you giving my ragged hoodlum lads a royal 
good time when you’re ready for it; my little scala¬ 
wag boys whose qualities are a plaid; black and 
white, good and bad, fairly evenly mixed, though I 
do believe that the black has white hair lines in its 
blocks!” 

“Orphan asylum?” asked Cis listlessly, yet her 
eyes had brightened slightly. 

“Industrial school, orphans or half-orphans, 
little boys whom we Catholics must hold tight; if 
we relax in the least the devil will slip a claw in 
underneath our loosened fingers!” replied Miss 


254 


THE GABLE 


Braithwaite turning toward her maid, then bring¬ 
ing in the mail of the first delivery of that day. 

“I was great pals with a funny bunch of newsies 
at home,’’ said Cis, biting her lip and glancing 
anxiously at the small clock behind her as the sight 
of the letters reminded her of the note which Rod¬ 
ney might then be reading. Or had not Miss 
Braithwaite sent it out the previous night? She had 
not asked, she did not ask now, but the letters 
which Miss Braithwaite was assorting gave her the 
sickened feeling with which one hears the first 
clods fall upon a casket which the guy ropes have 
just let down forever. 

“I knew you’d be great pals with that sort of 
youngster, Cicely,” returned Miss Braithwaite, 
cheerfully adopting Cis’s terms. “Letter for you, 
my dear; I had your mail sent here, from Miss Wal¬ 
lace’s.” 

“Oh, it’s Nan!” cried Cis. “Thank you, Miss 
Braithwaite.” 

She read her letter with a moved face and laid it 
down softly, stroking the pages. 

“She’ll be married on Christmas; she has hurried 
her arrangements because she wants us married to¬ 
gether. Dear little Nannie! Good little Nan! She 
is happy, but she deserves to be. I hope she will 
be, always,” Cis murmured, her face wistful, sad, 
but a gentle smile in her eyes. 

“Well, dear, happiness is a term of comparison, 
but it usually takes years to teach us this,” said 
Miss Braithwaite. “If your little bride-friend is 
good, with the sort of goodness you convey an im- 


THE CABLE 


255 


pression of, she is likely to be happy. Enkindled 
people rise to rapture, but they sink into wretched¬ 
ness; it’s safer to shine by refraction than to be en¬ 
kindled, my dear.” 

“How do you know the things you understand. 
Miss Braithwaite?” cried Cis. “I have hardly talked 
of Nan to you, yet you have her measure! I must 
write her, tell her. It will make her most unhappy! 
I don’t know how I can tell her I’m not to be mar¬ 
ried, after all. Nan will feel like a thief to be 
happy when I’m not. And she has taken the same 
day, so that we could be happy together, though 
apart. I won’t tell her anything except that my plan 
is all off, done with forever. I bought some lovely, 
perfectly beautiful damask, Miss Braithwaite; 
three table-cloths, napkins for each, and I’ve been 
doing hemstitched hems. They were for me, you 
know, for—Luckily they’re not marked yet. I’m 
not much good at embroidery, though I drew the 
threads and hemstitched quite decently. I was 
going to have them marked, embroidered letters, 
you know—‘C. A .’ I’d better have them marked 
A. M. D.—Anne Margaret Dowling—and send 
them to Nan, hadn’t I? Would that be nice? I al¬ 
most feel as though anything of mine might bring 
her bad luck!” 

“There’s no such thing as bad luck, Cis child!” 
cried Miss Braithwaite, trying not to let Cis see how 
much her quiet renunciation of her sweet hopes, 
stitched into her linen, moved her. “I am sure that 
your damask would bring Nan blessing; it is a cloth 
from an altar of sacrifice! It would be a beautiful 




256 


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gift, child, and Nan need not know, not now, at 
least, that it was at first intended for another 
home.” 

“I’ll go around to Miss Wallace’s to-day and 
get it then,” said Cis with a grateful look for 
her hostess. “And, Miss Rraitliwaite, I’ve got to 
plan. I’ve a good position here, I like Beaconhite, 
and I’ve got to live somewhere, but—I’ll always be 
afraid to walk out; I can’t meet Rod. Don’t you 
think, perhaps, I’d better go away? Not home; 
somewhere? And, oh, do you think Rod will try 
to see me? Miss Braithwaite, I can’t see him! 
What shall I do?” 

“I’ve been considering these points, Cis, my 
dear,” said Miss Braithwaite, evidently equipped 
with a decision upon them. “I am sure that Rodney 
Moore will try to see you once. I think that he will 
come here; he will hardly attempt to say to you 
what he will want to say in the street, meeting you 
on your way to and from the Lucas and Henderson 
offices. You need not see him here; I will see him 
for you. After that, I am hopeful that he will let 
you alone. I do not know him, but I know human 
nature, and I believe that after I have seen him for 
you, he will let you alone. As to keeping on with 
the office, that is as you please. But, Cicely, I have 
a proposition which I want you to consider; to be 
truthful, I do not want you to consider it, but to 
take it up at once. I am a solitary woman in this 
great house, with no one but servants around me. 
I want you to spend the winter here, with me. I 
hope for your help in my schemes; Father Morley’s 



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257 


girls’ club, my tatterdemalions, other things. You 
are young, attractive, bright; you can do all sorts of 
work for these objects. Then, for me, you can do 
more! Be a little fond of me, talk to me, com¬ 
panion me. And, last not least, for yourself; read 
my books—perhaps not every one on those shelves, 
but many of them; play a little, study a little, think 
a great deal; you went through school, now give 
yourself a little riper, deeper, higher education! 
And, Cis, dear, learn your faith! It seems a pity 
to miss its beauty, the joy it has for you, when 
you’ve bravely embraced unhappiness for it! As 
if you had risked your life for one almost a stranger, 
as you thought, and suddenly discovered it was 
your dearest, beloved friend! You’ll be delighted 
with the Church, my dear, when you get acquainted 
with her beauty! Dear, you’ve missed happiness 
and it’s hard, but happiness more profound and 
lasting is within your reach; I promise it to you! 
Now, Cis, will you stay with pie?” 

u Oh, Miss Braithwaite, I’d just dearly love to!” 
cried Cicely, springing up to throw herself on her 
knees beside Miss Braithwaite, her radiant head on 
her shoulder, sobbing a little, yet with the first ray 
of comforting hope penetrating her despair. 

Cicely arose the next morning to resume life on 
its new basis, yet under its old routine. This is, 
perhaps, the hardest strain imposed upon anyone 
who is newly bereft, by death or by the crueller 
deprivations of life. To go once more amid the fa¬ 
miliar surroundings, greet the accustomed faces 
with a surface smile, seeing with bewildered amaze- 


258 


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ment that the eyes smiling back recognize one for 
the same person that they have always seen though 
one feels like a shade walking the earth in the 
semblance of life, this is to deepen that painful 
sense of remoteness from common experience, 
which is the lasting hallmark of profound suffering. 

It was decided that Cis was to spend the winter 
with Miss Braithwaite. She was glad to accept the 
shelter of this house, yet more glad of the home 
open to her in the affections of this clever and 
spiritual gentlewoman than of the actual shelter of 
her dignified roof. For Cis, to her own bewilder¬ 
ment, found herself with little of her natural self- 
reliance. Beaten down by her recent struggle, 
though she had emerged victorious, she was scarred 
and torn by wounds still bleeding; she had accu¬ 
rately described herself to Miss Braithwaite as not 
knowing “how to walk.” 

Miss Braithwaite’s hand guiding her was strong 
and warm; she sustained her stumbling feet, 
poured the wine of her wholesome, humorous point 
of view into her wounds, and, at the same time, 
taught her to see the Perfect Beauty which by its 
perfection made all else worthless. 

Beyond her winter with Miss Braithwaite, Cis 
laid no plans; she was not sure whether or not she 
should continue in Mr. Lucas’ office; for that mat¬ 
ter, she was not sure that she might do so. She had 
determined to confess to Mr. Lucas her fault in giv¬ 
ing to Rodney Moore the hint he had asked for as 
to the final outcome of the franchise which was 
agitating the public mind. She would not stay on 


THE CABLE 


259 


with him unless Mr. Lucas knew the worst of her; 
after he knew it the decision about her staying was 
in his hands. She had notified Mr. Lucas that she 
would leave him before Christmas to be married; 
he probably had supplied her place from that time 
on. Well, all this was as it might be. Dressing 
slowly, with long intervals of absent-minded gazing 
out of the window, Cis was sure only that she was 
going to the office, confess to Mr. Lucas, do the one 
thing left her honorably to do; after that—nothing 
mattered greatly, anyway. She did not know, nor 
much care what came after that. 

Cis would not acknowledge to herself that she 
feared, with positively curdling fear, meeting Rod¬ 
ney. She felt sure that he would try to waylay her 
when she resumed her daily trips to and from the 
office. It seemed to her that if she withstood him, 
his reproaches, but much more his appeals—and 
she was sure that she could withstand them—that 
afterward the feeble ray of courage within her 
would be extinguished; that she had borne to her 
capacity. 

Therefore it was an unspeakable relief to find 
that Miss Braithwaite was taking her down that 
morning in her coupe and planning to bring her 
home at night. 

“You’re not quite at par, my dear, though you 
intend to take dictation in regard to soaring invest¬ 
ments,” she said. “I’m going in all sorts of direc¬ 
tions this morning; the Lucas and Henderson offices 
one of them, so you’re to be deposited at their door 
with no exertion on your part.’ 


260 


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“Oh, Miss Braithwaite, I’ll never be able to 
thank you!” cried Cis. “How you do see through 
people! But I don’t mind your knowing I’m a 
coward.” 

“A certain sort of cowardice is the highest cour¬ 
age, child; the courage to acknowledge danger and 
flee from it. Come along, Cicely Adair! Did you 
ever see that ridiculous Dollinger ballad? All about 
the dangerous voyage of a canal boat of which one 
Dollinger was captain? The refrain of each stanza 
is: ‘Fear not, but trust in Dollinger and he will 
fetch you through.’ It doesn’t matter; only old 
fogies know it, I suppose. Regard me as Dollinger, 
for I mean to fetch you through! Come, then!” 

Miss Braithwaite slipped her hand into Cis’s arm 
and took her out to the waiting car. Then she 
started off and drove Cicely to her destination, 
where she left her with a heartening pat on her 
shoulder and the promise to return for her at five. 

Mr. Lucas looked up with a smile of greeting 
when he heard Cis’s light touch on the handle of 
the office door, but the smile died on his lips, re¬ 
placed by a look of concern, as he started to his feet 
at the sight of her. 

“Why, Miss Adair, I had no idea that you had 
been seriously ill; I did not get that impression 
from Miriam Braithwaite. Pray take my chair till 
you are rested. I am profoundly sorry to see you 
so white and weakened,” he cried, kindly coming 
forward to take Cicely’s hand and gently force her 
into his own armchair. 

“No, Mr. Lucas, thank you,” said Cis, resisting 


THE CABLE 


261 


his kindness. “I have not been ill. Something hap¬ 
pened—I had a shock—I’ll be all right soon. Mr. 
Lucas, before I begin to work, before you say an¬ 
other word to me, there is something that I must 
tell you.” 

“Ah!’ murmured Mr. Lucas, experienced in 
human nature, and instantly guessing something of 
what he was to be told. “I am ready to listen, Miss 
Adair.” 

“I was engaged to be married; I told you that I 
was to have been married at Christmas; I resigned 
for that date for that reason,” said Cis, plunging, 
without letting herself delay her confession. “Rod 
—Mr. Moore, the one I was to marry—begged me 
to give him a hint about the franchise. He had 
some money; he wanted to buy that stock if the 
franchise was going through. He swore he would 
not let a hint of it get beyond him; I’m sure he 
wouldn’t—” 

“Why is everyone sure that everyone else will be 
more honorable in keeping a secret than he—or 
she—is?” asked Mr. Lucas dryly. “I see that you 
parted with mine.” 

‘ 4 Yes, Mr. Lucas, but indeed, indeed I held out 
long against it; I didn’t want to do it; I’ve always 
been quite straight,” cried Cis. “But Rod begged 
so hard; he told me that I was standing between him 
and success. I didn’t mind scolding, but when he 
was hurt—Well, at last I gave the hint he begged 
for, and I’ve been eating my heart out ever since. 
Now that you know, I’ll feel better, and of course 
I’ll go right away now; not wait till Christmas.” 






262 


THE CABLE 


“Just a moment, Miss Adair. I do not think we 
should be weak, any of us; it is the ideal to be gran¬ 
ite shafts of principle, but the sweeter and truer the 
woman, the harder for her to resist the sort of plea 
made you. I can see that it was hard; if it had not 
cost you pain to yield you would not be confessing 
your misstep to me now. I must forgive it, Miss 
Adair; it was a hard pull, and I’ll credit you with 
resistance. It has not harmed me, you’ll be glad to 
know. I wondered, rather, why there were notice¬ 
able sales of that stock on a recent date; your lover 
must have had considerable to invest in it. That 
chapter is closed; put it out of your mind. Now, 
my child, you were sent me by my brother, as a 
friend, in a sense, of my niece Jeanette’s, and I 
have a greater interest in you than that of a mere 
employer. Will you let me express it in a ques¬ 
tion? You have spoken of your engagement, your 
marriage, in the past tense. Are you not still en¬ 
gaged, still to be married at Christmas?"’ Mr. Lucas 
asked his question gently, pity in his eyes. 

“No, sir; it’s all over,” said Cis. 

“Not because of this franchise matter? You’re 
not a morbid girl to do penance, and punish a man 
for a thing of that sort?” cried Mr. Lucas. 

“No, Mr. Lucas,” said Cis. “Rod was married; 
I could not marry him. He was splendid; he told 
me about it. He was not going to tell me, but I love 
everything straight so much that after all he told 
me. And then we could not be married, you see. 
It was splendid; Rod was good, but still I could not 
go on with it.” 


THE CABLE 


263 


“Go on with it? Rod was splendid, you say? To 
tell you, to tell you he was married, after he had en¬ 
trapped you into an engagement, into loving him as 
I see you loved him? Well, hardly splendid! He 
did stop short of crime, but to stop on the edge of 
bigamy, and to make a girl like you suffer! Fd 
hardly call that splendid!” cried Mr. Lucas fiercely. 

“Bigamy?” repeated Cis. “Well, I don’t believe 
they call it that, but of course it is, if you stop to 
think. I hadn’t thought about it just that way. Rod 
was divorced; his wife was worse than dead, but she 
wasn’t dead. I suppose it is bigamy.” 

The word seemed to hold a horrid fascination for 
Cis. 

Mr. Lucas fell back in his chair and stared at Cis, 
trying to get his bearings. 

“Divorced?” he echoed. “Oh, but, my girl, that's 
another matter! Of course remarriage is not bigamy 
when the state has freed a man. Then he has no 
wife, so his marriage to a second one is not bigamy; 
it is as if the first one were dead.” 

Cis shook her head. “]No, Mr. Lucas,” she said, 
“it really isn’t; how could it be? Suppose I were 
walking with Rod, had married him, and we met 
his first wife. It wouldn’t be the same as if she were 
dead, would it? There’d be two of us, both alive. 
How do you suppose I’d feel; how would any de¬ 
cent girl feel? Besides, Mr. Lucas, Rod was mar¬ 
ried by a priest, and no one can break those mar¬ 
riages. I’d have had to give up God to marry Rod, 
and how could I?” 

Mr. Lucas frowned angrily. 


264 


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“It’s that abominable Roman tyranny again,” he 
cried. “How in the name of all that’s sane do those 
priests get hold of minds the way they do? You 
poor little victim of man-made laws, posing for Di¬ 
vine ones, have you wrecked your life and a man’s 
life for this nonsense?’’ 

“No, Mr. Lucas,” said Cis with a weary little gasp 
for breath, but not in the least shaken. “You are 
ever so much wiser than I, but I know that is not 
true. Our Lord Himself said that a divorced per¬ 
son could not be married, and what can you do 
when He tells you anything? I think I can see why 
it has to be, because outside the Catholic Church 
people keep going in and out of marriages till you’d 
think they’d be dizzy. And then there are the 
children. No, Mr. Lucas, it’s all right, even though 
it hurts. And, anyway, how could I turn my back 
on the Church? God’s there.” 

“You told me once that you were—what’s their 
term for it?—an indifferent Catholic. That you 
weren’t devout like some friend of yours, or was it 
Jeanette Lucas? Yet you make the choice of your 
Church instead of your happiness! I see what it 
has cost you; your face betrays your suffering. You, 
who could not stand firm against your lover’s plead¬ 
ing to you to put him in the way of making money, 
only of making money; who did violence to your 
hatred of not ‘being square,’ as you put it, you leave 
him, throw him over, infuriate him, wound his 
pride, as well as his love of you—for no man would 
do less than curse a woman for thus failing him 
after he had let her have the chance to choose—all 




THE CABLE 


265 


for an idea; for allegiance to a system; to keep 
within a Church which was not especially dear to 
you! And this when the laws of your country 
would justify your choosing the man, would place 
their seal upon your position in society as his wife! 
My heavens, Cicely Adair, what is it, what can it be 
that can so mold you into a Christian martyr, sing¬ 
ing as the wild beasts rend her?” 

Mr. Lucas sat erect, frowning heavily, his eyes 
flashing, for the problem before him stirred him to 
his depths. He had already encountered it in his 
brother’s conduct; he resisted the one explanation 
of it which his reason presented to him. 

Cis smiled her pitiful, funny little shadow of her 
normal bright, amused smile, and looked up at Mr. 
Lucas, saying: 

“I’m not singing, Mr. Lucas, not so you’d notice 
it! But I wouldn’t want the wild beasts to go off 
and lie down, not if it would turn me back. You 
see, it’s quite easy. I mean to understand. I’ve got 
to stand by, if I want God to stand by me, and what 
should I do if He didn’t? And that’s not all of it. 
I love Rod, but God is different; you can’t get on 
without Him. I think He’ll teach me to get on 
without Rod, somehow. I suppose I had more faith 
than I knew I had. It’s all faith, isn’t it, Mr. 
Lucas ?” 

“Yes! It is all faith. Cicely Adair!” cried Mr. 
Lucas, springing to his feet. “You’ve testified to 
yours! I don’t mind telling you that I think it is a 
great thing that you have done. I suppose I’m in¬ 
telligent enough to recognize what the loose mar- 


266 


THE CABLE 


riage laws are doing in this country. As a lawyer I 
know their effect on morals, the stability of home, 
the legitimacy of children. But that a slip of a girl 
should willingly throw over her strong love, her 
dearest hopes; a poor, pitiful little bead of clay set 
herself against the mighty torrent of evil, all be¬ 
cause a Church tells her to, promises her heaven if 
she does—good Lord! We Episcopalians discoun¬ 
tenance divorce, but our ministers may or may not 
marry divorced people, according as they are 
minded. The opposition of bishops and clergy to 
their doing so is straw, because there is nothing to 
enforce it, but you, who were not devout, you em¬ 
brace your hard lot at the bidding of your priests! 
As there is a God above us. Cicely Adair, what is 
the power of Rome that still can make confessors 
and martyrs of soft virgins?” 

“The God above us, isn’t it, Mr. Lucas?” said 
Cicely. 

Mr. Lucas stared at her a moment, then he said: 

“And now it turns you into an apologist! Your 
answer covers all sides of the question, admitting a 
premise! And the premise almost annihilates the 
necessity of admission! I will look into it—” He 
checked himself quickly, and said with a change of 
voice: “You will stay on in my employ, Miss Adair? 
You will not now leave me at Christmas? Do you 
feel fit to resume your desk to-day?” 

“I came to work, Mr. Lucas, if you don’t mind 
having me after I told the secret—” 

“A closed book!” Mr. Lucas interrupted her, 
raising his hand prohibitively. “I’m not afraid of 




THE CABLE 


267 


the honor that would not let you rest till you had 
acknowledged your weakness. I hardly think that 
what I know of you would justify my doubting your 
fidelity.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Lucas. You are as good as you 
can be to me! I’ll go to work then, now. May I 
have till New Year’s to decide how long I’ll be 
here?” asked Cis, going over to put her hat and coat 
away, and then dropping into her desk chair. 

“New Year’s will be time enough to decide,” 
said Mr. Lucas, also resuming his desk chair. To 
himself he said, with an inward smile: “I wonder if 
that glowing hair was given her for a nimbus? 
There are easier martyrdoms than hers!” 


CHAPTER XVH 


GOOD-BYE 

T T WAS pleasant to come out from the great office 
building at half past four to find waiting a 
motor coupe of the most correct and up-to-date 
type. It was still pleasanter to find the car door 
held open by a small hand in a grey glove that man¬ 
aged, in spite of its smallness and other occupation, 
to give a welcoming pat with two fingers on Cicely’s 
shoulder as she entered the car; to meet a warm 
smile in a pair of appraising eyes, and hear a beau¬ 
tiful voice say heartily: 

“Well, child, the morning and the evening were 
the first day! Was this first one hard, or was it 
rather agreeable to pick up the threads again?” 

For the first time in her life Cis had a sense of 
belonging, and it warmed her with a thrill of actual 
pleasure, the perception that in spite of all and 
after all, it might be good to be alive. 

What a beautiful thing this elderly gentlewoman 
was doing, Cis thought, thus to feed the hungry! 
There were many who limited that corporal work 
of mercy strictly to its proper bounds; few who fed 
the hungry of heart, mind, and soul in Miss Braith- 
waite’s way, and yet it was more like feeding than it 
was like a ministration to the soul. To take Cis 
into her home, to warm her into renewed life, to 

268 


THE CABLE 


269 


open up to her hitherto unknown resources for the 
maintenance of life’s true values, this was Miss 
Braithwaite’s divinely inspired dealing with Cis. 
The girl knew that Miss Braithwaite was an aristo¬ 
crat to her linger tips, exclusive in her friendships, 
withdrawn by instinct; that she wisely and justly 
chose those whom she would admit into her home. 
How fine it was then to fly at once to the rescue of 
Cicely Adair at the summons of Father Morley, 
mothering her as he had asked her to! Plainly, 
Cicely Adair must repay this goodness by its suc¬ 
cess with her; she must be good and happy; put 
away grief; grow in the directions which Miss 
Braithwaite indicated. Now that, for all the rest of 
the winter, Cis was to be an inmate of this ideal 
home—well, after all and in spite of all, Cis ought 
not to find her share of the days hard to fulfill. 

Miss Braithwaite would not let Cis tell her any¬ 
thing of the events of her day during dinner. 

“Dinner should be eaten to the accompaniment 
of chat, but not of long, nor of too absorbing tales, 
my dear,” she declared in her crisp little dogmatic 
way, half amused with herself, yet entirely in earn¬ 
est as to her dictum. “You will not eat properly 
if you recount to me the history of Mr. Wilmer 
Lucas and his reception of his secretary’s confes¬ 
sion of crime! I know perfectly well that your 
wishbone will not be scraped clean if you are too 
absorbed in talk—it is chicken to-night! Beside the 
hearth, Cis; that’s the place for a long narrative! 
The table for brief comments and flashes of wit. 
At the table I disapprove of discussions, mono- 




270 


THE CABLE 


logues, anything that too greatly distracts from the 
business in hand!” 

Later, “beside the hearth,” Miss Braithwaite 
handed Cis the tongs, and lay back in her deep 
chair with a breath of content. She looked like 
some sort of bird, tiny, alert, her quick, keen eyes 
flashing behind the eyeglasses resting on her thin 
arched nose; her hands making sudden small move¬ 
ments characteristic of them, not unlike the uplift¬ 
ing of a wing, its outspread and infolding. 

“There are times that I doubt my own nobility 
of soul, Cicely Adair,” she said, her mobile lips 
twisting with a tiny mocking smile. “But when I’m 
before the hearth fire, and hand someone else the 
tools to stir and mend it, then I know that 1 am fit 
to rank with the noblest Roman matron! Perhaps 
I mean Roman ladies living in the catacombs; I’ve 
no doubt that they were more self-sacrificing than 
the Mother of the Gracchi and the rest of ’em! Do 
lift that log end, Cis! It’s wasting there, smolder¬ 
ing out; make it blaze.” 

Cis obediently lifted the charred end of a log into 
the heart of the fire, and then, at: “Now tell me!” 
from Miss Braithwaite, told her story of Mr. Lucas’ 
reception of her confession to him, and his com¬ 
ments on her obedience to her conscience. 

Miss Braithwaite sat erect as she listened, her 
face expressing her interest. 

“My dear child, you never can tell!” she cried 
as Cis ended. “Robert Lucas became a Catholic 
about ten years after I did; he is fifteen years 
younger than I. Wilmer Lucas was no less dis- 


THE CABLE 


271 


gusted than he was angry. He said that Robert 
had made a fool of himself, that with his mind 
continually hovering over kisses upon the pope’s 
toe he never could get anywhere, amount to 
anything! Wiimer always enjoyed vigorous sym¬ 
bolical language! In point of fact Robert Lucas 
has gone far, has amounted to a great deal. He is 
not involved in national politics, as our lawyer Wii¬ 
mer is, but he is a successful man, and no one ever 
speaks of him without paying tribute in the highest 
terms to his lofty character. Wiimer Lucas is hon¬ 
orable and honored, but it is Robert, not he, whose 
goodness seems to impress people over and above 
his other qualities. Wiimer Lucas has been most 
intolerant of the Church all these years; he is 
protestant, not only against her directly, but against 
her intrusion into his family. He is exceedingly 
fond of Robert’s daughter Jeanette, by the way. I 
have always seen that in the case of Father Morley, 
whom he avoids; my own case; his unwillingness to 
allow his brother ever to speak on the subject, Wii¬ 
mer Lucas betrays his perception of the impreg¬ 
nable position of the Old Church, that he pays her 
tribute, though it is in a form not unlike the tribute 
to her Founder recorded in the Gospel. He is a 
man of logical mind, highly trained to sift evidence; 
he cannot fail to perceive the immense difference 
between her consistent logic and the shifting sands 
of mere opinion outside of her, nor can he account 
for her hold on men’s souls down through the ages 
by natural means. Now, to-day, you have startled 
him by a new instance of the power of conscience. 


272 


THE CABLE 


I am glad that you look pale, Cis dear, that you 
show suffering! And how it must have impressed 
him that, though you could not withstand Rodney’s 
pleading with you to do what you held wrong in a 
lesser matter, you have held your Faith against all 
pressure from without and within! Evidently Mr. 
Lucas is impressed, the more so that he had not 
thought you particularly devout. Perhaps it will 
set him thinking, farther and hard! As I set out by 
saying, you never can tell!” 

“Oh, Miss Braithwaite, it isn’t likely that Mr. 
Lucas would pay attention long to no-consequence 
me!” cried Cis. 

“You—never—can—tell!” repeated Miss Braith¬ 
waite emphatically. “Usually a train of circum¬ 
stances, some of them trivial and hardly noted, lead 
men to the Truth; it is like a sort of Divine hare- 
and-hounds; tiny scraps of paper flutter along the 
trail, unconsciously seen by the players, till at last! 
The goal and the game won!” 

“That’s great, Miss Braithwaite!” cried Cis with 
quick appreciation of the figure. “I wish I were 
that sort of a scrap of paper, but it’s not likely.” 

“Never can tell!” Miss Braithwaite harped on 
her premise. “I’ve always noticed that when God 
breaks us, my dear, it’s to use the pieces in new 
combinations, and for good. It is as if we were pic¬ 
ture puzzles, with reverse sides. We’re something 
quite pretty at first; then the pieces are tossed and 
displaced by a great experience, and, if we submit 
and wait, behold God’s Hand puts us all together 
again, the reverse side up, and the picture is no 


THE CABLE 


273 


longer merely a pretty thing, but a beautiful, shin¬ 
ing illumination, of which all who run may read 
its meaning which is at once a magnet and a map 
of the way.” 

“Miss Braithwaite, you tell me wonderful 
things!” cried Cis softly. “If I’m here all winter 
with you I ought to amount to something; I’ll try to. 
It’s strange that I don’t hear—from Rodney. Do 
you suppose he isn’t going to say one word to me? I 
was sure he’d try to see me. Do you think he’s 
given right up like this?” 

“From my experience of men I’d say decidedly 
not,” said Miss Braithwaite. “However, it is strange 
that he makes no sign. Perhaps lie’s the exception; 
that his anger will prevent him from claiming to 
hear his verdict from your lips, but very few men 
would submit to banishment on the strength of a 
brief note from you.” 

“I will not see him; he can’t hear the verdict 
from my lips!” cried Cis. “What would be the 
use? Only miserable pain; parting all over again. 
I’m so afraid of meeting him! You can’t drive me 
everywhere I go. I truly think I ought to leave 
Beaconhite; I think perhaps I must.” 

“Well, well, we’ll see! Not to-night, at least! 
To-morrow is also a day. I like those wise old say¬ 
ings. I hope that you may stay on; you need Father 
Morley for a while. Yes, Ellen; someone to see 
me?” Miss Braithwaite turned toward her maid, en¬ 
tering with a card on a small salver. 

“No, Miss Braithwaite, for Miss Adair. He— 
the caller—was determined to walk right in, but I 



274 


THE GABLE 


made him go into the reception room,” said Ellen, 
who, like most good and faithful servants, was per¬ 
fectly conversant with household affairs; took care 
that whatever happened under the roof should, in 
some way, transpire to her. 

“Miss Braithwaite, see him! Hide me! I can’t, 
I can’t!” gasped Cis, snatching at the card, instantly 
dropping it and looking wildly around. 

“G. Rodney Moore,” Miss Braithwaite read. “Go 
out that door, Cis; I’ll see him. Ellen, take Miss 
Adair through the little passage to the back stairs. 
Then go down and show Mr. Moore up here. Be 
quiet, Cicely; this is your last trial, my dear. Go 
up and say your beads and fear not, my child.” 

Cis escaped, hurrying away, yet everything in her 
called upon her to stay. An instant, and she could 
see Rodney; a word, and they would never part. 

Rodney Moore came half stumbling into Miss 
Braithwaite’s library. He found that little lady 
standing to receive him beside her hearth; the posi¬ 
tion of the chairs told him that she had not been 
long alone. 

Although Miss Braithwaite had never seen Rod¬ 
ney Moore before, she recognized upon his face, 
in his disordered clothes, the marks of unhappy 
disturbance of mind. He stopped short seeing her, 
and said: 

“I want Cicely Adair.” 

“I know you do,” said Miss Braithwaite, and 
there was pity in her voice. “Sit down, Mr. Moore. 
Miss Adair has asked me to see you for her. She 


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will not be able to endure anything more than she 
has borne.” 

“The devil she won’t!” burst out Rodney. “What 
about me? I don’t count, eh? She can write me a 
cool note and expect that to satisfy the man who 
saw her last in the place he was fitting up for her to 
live in with him? Not much! I’d have been here 
before, but I didn’t know where she was. She left 
me; walked off like an oyster, with no heart nor 
tongue in it, and, when I tried to connect with her, 
she was gone. They couldn’t tell me anything about 
her at her boarding house. I found out that was 
the truth, too, and then I went off to see her old 
friend. Nan Dowling; I was sure she had run off 
to her, but no one had seen her there. X read all 
the papers—you know what I was afraid I’d see in 
one of ’em! I came back here, half crazy with 
fear, and I found that damned cool, calm note wait¬ 
ing for me, my ring in it! That Holly ring! So 
here I am. Bring Cis here. I’ve a right to see her. 
Don’t you try to keep her off!” 

“Miss Adair was in this room when your card was 
brought up, Mr. Moore. She ran away, praying me 
to keep you from her; she will not see you. It is 
she, not I, who decides,” said Miss Braithwaite. 

“You lie!” cried Rodney hoarsely. “Do you sup¬ 
pose I don’t know Cis? Nothing cold-hearted 
about her! I’ll go through this house till I find her, 
and when I find her—” He stopped, unable to go 
on; he had risen, and stood holding to the back of 
a chair, as if he might flay Miss Braithwaite with it. 



276 


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66 You will remain precisely where you are until 
you leave my house,” said the tiny woman quietly. 
“You will not step your foot beyond the boundary 
to which I admit you. You do well to threaten me, 
and to threaten a suffering girl whom you love! Be 
seated, Mr. Moore, and listen to me. I am truly 
sorry for you; it is hard, harder for you than for 
Cicely, for she suffers for a righteous cause, and you 
suffer because you are a traitor to that cause.” 

“None of your sermons!” cried Rodney. “If I 
hated the Roman Catholic Church before, and was 
glad I was shunt of it, how do you suppose I like it 
now that it is stealing my wife? Cis is a girl; girls 
are easy fooled; they’re all alike when it comes to 
priests and stuff. I could have held my tongue and 
married Cis; this is what I get for being straight 
with her. Is that fair?” 

“You could not have married Cis; you might 
have succeeded in ruining her life. Be thankful 
that you had the grace to stop at the crime you con¬ 
templated toward her,” Miss Braithwaite said. “But 
I truly believe, Mr. Moore, that this is not all that 
you get for being straight. I believe that good is 
coming to you, unforeseen good, because you con¬ 
quered the temptation to trick her into a legal mar¬ 
riage that never in her eyes—nor at the last issue in 
yours, either—would have been a marriage. For so 
mighty is truth, so strong its hold upon us, that we 
can never free our souls from its blessed bondage. 
Our lips and our actions may deny it; what we have 
been taught persists in our souls, often saving us, at 




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277 


last. Now do one last, fine, atoning act: go away 
and leave Cis to find her way back into peace. You 
say she wrote you calmly, coldly. I saw the note 
written, there, at that desk. She wrote it in agony. 
Surely you could read agony there if you were not 
blinded with your own pain! Pain, but also anger, 
Mr. Moore! Remember your pang is partly the 
wrath of defeat.’" 

“See here, I’m not calling on you. You may be 
a duchess, which you act like, but I’m not your 
serf!” cried Rodney. “I won’t take this from you. 
Cis has to refuse to see me. Send her here. How 
do I know you haven't got her locked up some¬ 
where, you and a priest?” 

“Because you are not a fool,” said Miss Braith- 
waite contemptuously. “Take a sheet of paper 
from that desk, at which Cicely sat to write to you, 
and write upon it any message you please. My maid 
shall take it to her. After that, if she will not see 
you, you will leave my house and I trust be man 
enough to torment the girl no more.” 

“You’re a high-handed little labor leader, if you 
are a fine lady, aren’t you?” cried Rodney, almost 
admiringly, in spite of his rage. 

He crossed the room, took up a piece of paper 
from the desk, shook down the ink in his own foun¬ 
tain pen, and wrote several lines. Then he took an 
envelope, laid his note inside and sealed it. 

“Servants are curious,” he said. “Are you going 
to call yours?” 

Miss Braithwaite rang, and Ellen appeared. 


278 


THE CABLE 


“Please take Mr. Moore’s note to Miss Adair, El¬ 
len,’" said Miss Braithwaite. “Wait till she has read 
it, and bring back her reply, please.” 

“No! I’ll go with you! Take me—I’ll follow 
you, Ellen; go ahead,” said Rodney, starting toward 
the door. 

“Rodney Moore, you forget yourself! Stay where 
you are. Ellen, do as I have told you; this young 
man will wait here for your return.” 

Miss Braithwaite drew herself up to her full five 
feet of height, but there was in her eyes and voice 
that which no one ever lightly disobeyed. Mutter¬ 
ing something, Rodney fell back, and stood beside 
the library table, fumbling the magazines upon it 
with shaking hands. 

There was perfect silence in the room for a 
strained quarter of an hour of waiting. A log on 
the fire broke and fell apart; Rodney jumped, his 
nerves quivering from sleepless nights and days of 
baffled will, together with fear as to Cicely’s fate. 
Then Ellen returned and handed back to Rodney 
the note which he had sent to Cis. Upon it she had 
written, almost illegibly, across the final page: 

“'Rod, dear, I can’t see you, truly I can’t. It would 
be harder for us both. I would give up anything on 
earth for you, but I will not give up God for you. 
Please, Rod, don’t try to see me, never, oh, never! 
And please, please, Rod dear, not so much forgive 
me as say to yourself: Poor Cis—Holly was right. 
It is right to serve God first. And be a good boy 
yourself. Rod, my beloved, and come back, too, so 
that after a few little years we’ll be together forever 



THE CABLE 


279 


and ever. But till then, please let this be good-bye. 
Cis.” 

Rodney crushed the poor little note in the palm 
of his hand, then he smoothed it out, laying it flat 
on his hand. Then he looked down on it, standing 
quite still. Then he bent down to it and kissed it. 
Miss Braithwaite knew that the long, silent waiting 
for it; the reaction from his harrowing fear, now 
that he knew Cis was safe; his proximity to her; his 
better self, perhaps the graces of his boyhood, had 
conquered. Rodney had struck his colors and ac¬ 
cepted defeat. 

“This settles it. Miss Braithwaite,” he said. 
“There’s nothing more to hang around for. You are 
right; Cis decides it herself. I beg your pardon for 
my impertinence, but—” 

“I shall not remember it, Mr. Moore; you have 
been sorely tried. I do not wonder that your nerves 
snapped. Will you let me say to you that with all 
my heart I wish you well? Happy, too, though I 
know the word sounds mocking in your ears to¬ 
night?” Miss Braithwaite’s voice was exceedingly 
kind; her heart went out to Rodney, whose state 
was immeasurably more to be pitied than Cicely’s. 

“Thanks,” said Rod miserably. “It does sound 
what you might call far-fetched. You might tell 
Cicely, if you will, that I’m going away; I won’t stay 
in Beaconhite. I haven’t the heart to stay; I’d be 
always looking along the streets for her. Tell her 
I’ll stick with the same concern, and, if she ever 
needed me for anything, to address me in care of 
Hammersley and Rhodes, Chicago. That’s the head 


280 


THE CABLE 


office, and they’ll forward anything. Good night. 
Miss Braithwaite. Is Cis staying with you long?” 

“I hope all winter,” said Miss Braithwaite. “It’s 
only fair to her to tell you that she has gone 
through utter agony; her victory over herself has 
been hard won, so don’t underrate it, and try to see 
the value of eternal things, if such a girl as our 
Cicely Adair can turn from joy and love for their 
sake. Cis could not go to you into the wrong; come 
to her into the right. And God bless you, poor 
lad.” 

“Thanks,” said Rodney again. “I’m done with 
Church, but I’m much obliged; you mean it well. 
I hope Cis will stay on; you’ll look after her. I 
don’t understand how she came to be here; I sup¬ 
pose you’re one of these befriending women. Good¬ 
bye. Tell Cis—No! What’s the use? You can’t 
send messages that do any good. I wish I could kiss 
her good-bye. She’s—she’s a wonder! Oh, good 
God, what’s the use? Good-bye, Miss Braithwaite.” 

Rodney turned and dashed toward the door. He 
collided with the end of the bookcase nearest it, fell 
back, begged its pardon, and with a second dash 
was gone. Miss Braithwaite drew a long breath, 
and turned toward the fire, picking up the tongs to 
mend it, under the necessity of action; she was con¬ 
siderably disturbed. 

“It’s most wearing to have love affairs, even by 
proxy,” she told herself. “He’s not without attrac¬ 
tion, and I can see that he’s remarkably handsome 
when he has slept, and eaten, and shaved. Dear me, 
what a singular thing it is that with all the millions 



THE CABLE 


281 


of people there are in the world one can become so 
vitally necessary to another that the loss of him— 
or her—is cataclysmic in effect! I wonder how the 
saints endure all the human disturbances unloaded 
upon them for their help! I find it exhausting. But 
then I have not died, and thus gained the larger 
point of view! And, furthermore, it’s barely pos¬ 
sible that I’m not a saint! Now for my poor Cis! 
I can imagine her state with Rod downstairs and 
her polarized will holding her upstairs, forever sep¬ 
arated, yet with but twenty-five feet between 
them!” 

Miss Braithwaite went upstairs. She found Cis on 
her knees at the balustrade, her face pressed to the 
spindles, which her fingers tightly clasped. 

It was a wet face that she raised to Miss Braith¬ 
waite, but she was glad to see it so; tears were heal¬ 
ing. 

44 I heard his voice; I saw him go out. Miss Braith¬ 
waite! He will never come to me again! Oh, Miss 
Braithwaite, Miss Braithwaite!” Cis sobbed. 

44 Well, as to that,” began Miss Braithwaite in a 
customary formula of hers, as she lifted Cis gently 
to her feet and led her into her chamber, 4 Tm not 
so sure. You see, even though we live only about 
seventy years, it’s amazing the things that can hap¬ 
pen in that time, things which we declared impos¬ 
sible ! I have a notion that you may not be through 
with Rodney Moore, and his affairs, but I doubt 
that they will always mean to you as much as they 
do now. He behaved well, my dear—at the last! 
I’m bound to say that he seemed ready for personal 


282 


THE CABLE 


violence upon me at first. He accepted your deci¬ 
sion completely, quietly, and nicely. He told me to 
say to you that he was leaving Beaconhite, but may 
be reached through the main office of his firm in 
Chicago if ever he could serve you. And that is be¬ 
having prettily, my dear, and it is a real relief to us 
not to dread your meeting him. So now, my Cicely, 
will you go to bed and to sleep, resting peacefully 
on your knowledge that your fight is fought, your 
victory won, and that God is tenderly blessing your 
true heart with the love of His Heart?” 

Miss Braithwaite left Cis on her pillow in her 
pretty room, ready to sleep from weariness, relaxed, 
as Miss Braithwaite had suggested to her, by the 
knowledge that this chapter in her life was closed. 

At the foot of the stairs Miss Braithwaite met Mr. 
Anselm Lancaster, just coming to call upon her; 
they were great friends. 

“You look tired, dear Miss Miriam,” he said at 
once as they shook hands. “Anything wrong?” 

“No; on the contrary, something wholly right,” 
she replied, leading the way into the library. “I’ve 
been watching the Great Cable strain, but, thank 
God, it has held, and I know a little bark that has 
all sails set for the Beautiful Land.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


ORIENTATION 

|\T 0W ’ dear, y° u must turn toward the east 

**■ ^ when you say your prayers,’" Miss Braith- 
waite briskly said to Cis the next morning at break¬ 
fast. 

Cis smiled inquiringly, missing her meaning; it 
was one of Miss Braithwaite’s highest assets that her 
meanings were not always obvious; they stimulated 
curiosity and held attention. 

“I don’t suppose you really mean that I’m to turn 
to the east?” Cis said. 

“You are to face the coming day, keep your eyes 
on the rising sun, your back resolutely turned on 
the setting day,” explained Miss Braithwaite. “That 
is called orientation, and it is your best attitude 
now. Indeed I don’t know anyone who can afford 
to take any other—eyes toward the orient ‘whence 
comes the light.’ ” Cis was considering this hint 
from Miss Braithwaite all day. 

“Anyone else would tell me to brace up, or let 
bygones be bygones, or something of that sort, but 
Miss Braithwaite gives everything she says a turn 
that makes you begin to do what she advises, even 
while you’re listening to her,” she thought. “I’ll 

look eastward! I’ll wear blinders so I can’t see, ex- 

283 



284 


THE CABLE 


cept straight ahead! But I’ll be glad when Christ¬ 
mas is over.” 

Miss Braithwaite involved Cis in preparations for 
a Christmas totally unlike any that she had hitherto 
known. There was to be a tree for her “scalawags,” 
and it was not hard to interest Cis in this. She went 
with Miss Braithwaite to see her little ragged boys, 
and capitulated to them at once, as they did to her. 
It refreshed Cis to play with them, to talk to them, 
falling back on the vernacular which she had 
learned from her newsboys in those old days, hourly 
becoming more and more unreal to her. There was 
a small, peaked lame little creature of nine who 
won and wrung Cis’s heart. She immediately began 
a glorious warm crimson sweater for him, on which 
she knit frantically every evening when she was not 
oversewing tarelton candy bags with bright wor¬ 
steds, or assembling and gluing into place the fig¬ 
ures for the little, but perfect “Cribs” which each 
child within Miss Braithwaite’s orbit was to receive 
to take home at Christmas. She would set up a 
“Bethlehem” in wretched places, far enough re¬ 
moved in squalor and vicious ignorance from the 
light of the Star, the chant of the angels. 

Every one of Father Morley’s girls in his club 
was to receive a book and some of the useless, 
pretty things which girls covet. 

“It’s downright brutal to give only utilitarian 
things at Christmas!” declared Miss Braithwaite. 
“It’s a joyous time, and who can be joyous over 
black stockings and initialed handkerchiefs? The 
girls must have nonsensical things; dangling, silly 


THE CABLE 


v 


285 


vanity-feeders along with their substantial gifts 
from Father Morley, else Merry Christmas would 
be mockery said to them.” 

She put Cis at assorting these gifts, and, being a 
girl herself who was to be but twenty-two on this 
same Christmas, she enjoyed her task. 

Mr. Lancaster often dropped in after dinner, and 
not infrequently to dine. They all three drew up 
before the vast hearth, with its jolly fire lighting up 
Cicely’s red hair, turning it to gold-with-copper- 
alloy on its surface coils; making a dark warmth 
below its surfaces, like a low fire on a forge. 

Cis did not talk much, but she listened, and, lis¬ 
tening, found new worlds opening out before her. 
Both Miss Braithwaite and Mr. Lancaster had been 
much about Europe; they knew unfrequented cor¬ 
ners of it as one knows the places beloved in child¬ 
hood. 

“Do you remember, Anselm?” Miss Braithwaite 
would begin, and then would follow eager remin¬ 
iscences of dear, queer, crooked streets; a shrine in 
a cathedral; a room in an ancient palace, or, more 
delightful still, a sleeping village and the sweet 
ways of its peasants all informed with faith, the 
realization of God, and utter trust in Him. 

Or Mr. Lancaster would exclaim: “Oh, Miss 
Miriam, do you recall that little wounded kid which 
we saw the summer you and I met in the Tyrol, and 
how its sad-eyed little owner carried it—at such an 
effort!—out to the Calvary on the hillside, and laid 
it at the foot of the crucifix? There was faith that 


286 


THE CABLE 


the God Who suffered to save souls would also pity 
His small four-footed creatures!” 

“Indeed I could not easily forget it, Anselm! It 
was so sweet, and so piteous,” Miss Braithwaite had 
answered. “I’ve always been most thankful that 
you came along just then! I am sure that there is 
one young creature in Switzerland who will carry 
to the grave the conviction that, together with the 
guardian angels, Americans are the instruments of 
God’s mercy in answer to prayer! What a happy 
child that was when you bound up the kid and set 
its leg!” 

Cicely, sitting silent on her side of the fireplace, 
raised her eyes and met Mr. Lancaster’s look, like a 
boy’s who has been found out in gentleness, always 
more mortifying to an American lad than detection 
in naughtiness—together with her impressions of 
life amid venerable, yet vividly existent faith, she 
was getting the revelation of two beautiful souls, 
the elderly woman’s, the twenty-seven years 
younger man’s, who knew and loved these things 
because they were part of them. 

Sometimes something came up in these desultory, 
aimless talks which made Mr. Lancaster spring 
up, take a book from the shelves—Miss Braith¬ 
waite seemed to know exactly where to send him 
for any volume of the three thousand or so in this 
room—turn to a passage or a poem bearing on what 
had just been said, and read it aloud. 

This was almost the best of all. Anselm Lan¬ 
caster had a beautiful, flexible voice; he had been 
an Oxford man and had brought home with him 



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287 


the perfect modulations and pronunciation of Eng¬ 
lish which Oxford gives her sons, and he read with 
the feeling that an artist and lover of literature 
brings to a book. Cis, listening, felt that her edu¬ 
cation was just beginning; she realized what Miss 
Braithwaite had meant when she suggested to her 
that she should spend this winter in this way. Here¬ 
tofore she had learned facts; now she was learning 
what the facts stood for, what had called them into 
being, and no array of facts can compare with this 
knowledge. It is the clothing of the dry bones 
which are meaningless until the spirit prophesies to 
them and makes them alive. 

Best of all, though, were those times when An¬ 
selm Lancaster went over to Miss Braithwaite’s 
piano, standing with its narrow end toward a book- 
filled corner, its keyboard toward the room, and, 
there in the shadow, played such exquisite music 
that it obliterated conscious thought, leaving no 
room for anything but the delight of harmonies. It 
was hard to go on working at these times. Miss 
Braithwaite’s work would fall into her lap, her face 
rest upon her hand while she gazed into the fire 
with eyes that seemed to look beyond the bounds 
of flesh, her expression unutterably wistful. Cis, 
who did not understand what she heard as Miss 
Braithwaite did, yet was engulfed by it. Never in 
her short life had anything so seized her as did this 
music, yet, while in the elder woman it woke the 
longing that nothing on earth can satisfy, in the 
girl it called out new resolution to live and to do. 

Cis talked little during these pleasant evenings, 


288 


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yet she never felt, nor was excluded. Miss Braith- 
waite’s smile was always ready for her; Mr. Lan¬ 
caster included her with small services rendered 
her as she worked, and his eyes rested upon her 
as he talked, leaving her free to reply or not as she 
chose, and thus she, though silently for the most 
part, made a third in the conversation. 

On the eve of Christmas Eve Mr. Lancaster came 
rather later than usual; Cis had decided that he was 
not coming and was a little disappointed. She was 
restless; it was hard to keep her fingers steadily em¬ 
ployed, her mind off the thought that the morrow 
would have been her wedding day. Somewhere 
Rod was remembering this. She sent a prayer out 
toward him wherever he might be, that he might be 
blessed. 

When Mr. Lancaster came in Miss Braithwaite 
was more than usually glad to see him. 

“Welcome indeed, Anselm!” she cried. “I am 
glad to see you, I heartily detest telephoning, but I 
must arrange the details of our Christmas with you. 
You know that the Jesuits have High Mass at mid¬ 
night? Father Morley needed persuading to it, but 
he yielded to our clamor for it. My ragamuffins 
have their tree to-morrow, at five in the afternoon 
—though I don’t suppose you’d have suspected me 
of the morning five o’clock! As you’re to be my 
Santa Claus, you’ll meet me at the hall, I suppose? 
The tree should be all over by seven. Then you’ll 
come home with us; we’ll have a cozy dinner— 
maigre , for the vigil!—and quietly wait for the 
time to start for Mass. I’ll drive you and Cis; the 


THE GABLE 


289 


maids are to be sent in another car. Then, after 
Mass, we’ll wish one another a blessed Noel, and 
Cicely a birthday of the best gifts, and go our ways 
to our well-merited slumber. Do you like my pro¬ 
gramme?” 

“Only an ingrate could say no, Miss Miriam,” 
cried Anselm Lancaster. “I’ll do my best to fulfil 
my part of it. I’ve an idea! Do you mind if I 
costume as St. Nicholas, instead of Santa Claus, and 
tell the boys in a few simple words who I am, what 
I’ve always done for children, and, in a word, what 
a fine thing it is to have a saint for their friend, in¬ 
stead of a fake? I think I can get it over to them, 
and it’s rather a chance to steer them toward reali¬ 
ties. What says the great little lady? And her 
lieutenant?” 

“The great little lady highly approves, Anselm; 
it takes you to see chances to bolster up faith and 
morals incidentally to a frolic!” cried Miss Braith- 
waite. 

“And—?” hinted Mr. Lancaster, waiting for Cis. 
“The lieutenant?” 

“If I’m the great little lady’s lieutenant, she 
thinks it’s fine,” Cis said. “It will be good for me, 
too, because I don’t know much about St. Nicholas, 
except that somehow he stood for Santa Claus’ 
portrait, and it didn’t come near the original. 
Queer, but I never liked Santa Claus as well as 
other children did; he’s too fa-stout! I hated that 
line that told about his shaking when he trotted 
around! Maybe I’d have liked him better if I’d 
been one of a family, and a lot of us had got ae- 


290 


THE CABLE 


quainted with him together, waiting for him to 
come down the chimney.” 

Anselm Lancaster looked pleased at this un¬ 
usually long speech from Cis. Sometimes Cis won¬ 
dered if he knew her story and were sorry for her. 
She did not mind if he knew, nor resent his pos¬ 
sible pity. He was so simply and truly a fine gen¬ 
tleman that no knowledge that he possessed of an¬ 
other could ever seem like an intrusion. 

“Good! Then St. Nicholas appears, permissu 
superiorum!” he cried. “Miss Braithwaite tells me 
that you are to sing, Miss Adair; out of sight, im¬ 
personating an angel, probably. I didn’t know you 
sang.” 

“I don’t; Pm just going to do it,” Cis laughed. “If 
I impersonated an angel I’d be out of sight, that’s 
sure!” 

“In a slang sense?” suggested Mr. Lancaster. 
“Will you sing now what you’ll sing then to the 
children, please. Miss Cis!” 

“Oh, goodness!” sighed Cis, but she promptly 
arose. “All right; I will. It’s the quickest way to 
prove I can’t! But I can’t play; Miss Braithwaite 
plays it.” 

“Not when Anselm is here,” said Miss Braith¬ 
waite. “Play "The Snow Lay on the Ground’; play 
it in F, and harmonize it beautifully, because I in¬ 
tend you to play it for Cis to-morrow night.” 

Anselm Lancaster sat down before the dark in¬ 
strument that reflected the fire and electric light in 
its shining case. He struck a few chords medita¬ 
tively, then he went on to play the simple, lovely 


THE CABLE 


291 


air over and over, surrounding it with new har¬ 
monies, varying it, not as a fantasia, but by holding 
to its simplicity, its lyric pathos, enriching it with 
all the possibilities of a choral. 

Cis stood listening, entranced. 

“Isn’t that wonderful?” she sighed. “It’s all 
there, and yet nothing is there till you bring it out! 
I love that hymn!” 

“There’s a pretty allegory tucked away in what 
you just said. Miss Adair, if you look for it. Now 
will you sing it for me?” said Mr. Lancaster, softly 
touching the keys. 

Cis sang, and Anselm Lancaster for the unnum¬ 
bered time in his knowledge of her, applauded 
Miss Braithwaite’s wisdom. Cis had a fresh, true 
young voice, round and sweet, with the quality in 
it of a boy’s; she had no method whatever, but sang 
as it had been given to her to sing, yet no artist 
could better have conveyed the effect of an un¬ 
earthly narrator, telling the story of the First 
Christmas. It was a song like the flow of a moun¬ 
tain spring, or the shape of a northern pine, trans¬ 
lated into sound. 

“My dear Miss Adair, that was most beautiful!” 
Anselm cried sincerely. “It is exactly what it should 
be. You sound like one of the shepherd boys who 
sing that hymn on the mountains beyond Rome, or 
even like one of their pipes! And you speak every 
word so that the dullest boy will get it.” 

“I want them to know what it tells them,” said 
Cis, and Mr. Lancaster noted that she made no dis¬ 
claimer of his praise, as she made no pose as a 


9Q9 

4md V 4* 


THE CABLE 


singer. She did what she was asked to do as best 
she could; there it began, there it ended. 

“Of course they can’t understand the Latin, 
Venite adoremus Dominum, but they are all bap¬ 
tized, and I think we catch a little Latin then, don't 
you? It seems to stick to us. I know Latin never 
seems like something I don’t understand, even 
when I’m not understanding it, and at high school 
it never bothered me a bit.” 

“Do you know the Missal?” asked Anselm Lan¬ 
caster, interested in this Cis, suddenly friendly 
toward him and at ease with him. 

“Miss Braithwaite has been showing it to me, and 
all about the colors, and the vestments’’ meaning; 
I’m so glad that she has!” cried Cis eagerly. “It’s 
so splendid, so beautiful, so big and so old! It’s as 
if I’d been a miserable little scrap of a beggar girl 
and someone had taken me into a palace with rooms 
and rooms, and told me it was all mine! Do you 
know, Mr. Lancaster, it’s scandalous to confess it, 
but I always thought there was just one Mass; every 
day the same, three hundred and sixty-five times a 
year. And here all these collects and prefaces— 
mercy!” 

Cis waved her hands as she ended; her delight in 
recovering her inheritance was unmistakable. 

“Now I know what Santa—I mean St. Nicholas! 
—must bring you!” cried Anselm Lancaster, ex¬ 
changing a glance of pleasure with Miss Braith¬ 
waite. 

Weary, but triumphant, having brought “her 
ragmuffins’ Christmas tree” to a successful conclu- 


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sion, Miss Braithwaite took her guests home in her 
coupe to dine on Christmas Eve. It was another Cis 
from the one of the night before who sat, pale, with 
drooping eyes, in her golden gown with its slender 
line of brown fur, opposite to Mr. Lancaster, talk¬ 
ing little, eating indifferently, her face grave, rather 
than sad, her smile sweet and ready, with a kind of 
friendly patience new to Cis. 

Miss Braithwaite saw that Anselm watched her, 
and she, also, watched her covertly. The girl was 
changing fast; she was growing, deepening, expand¬ 
ing. At this rate she would soon be a gracious, at¬ 
tractive and valuable woman. 

A thought new to her mind occurred to Miss 
Braithwaite, but she instantly dismissed it. An¬ 
selm Lancaster had seen many lovely and lovable 
women, in many lands; Cicely Adair could not at¬ 
tract him beyond his sympathetic interest in a girl 
who had done what she had done, had been faithful 
to the cause nearest his heart. 

And if Cicely had been capable of attracting such 
a man as the scholarly and accomplished Anselm 
Lancaster, he was so far from her thoughts in this 
regard that she would never put forth the innocent 
wiles which are every girl’s for the man whom she 
feels may love her, by which she awakens and feeds 
his attraction, according to the plan of the Creator 
Who made them male and female. Cis withdrew 
from Mr. Lancaster as a rule, as from one outside 
her orbit, and when she approached him it was with 
that admiration and trust that frankly announced 
her sense of remoteness. Yet it was a sweet, a 


294 


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womanly Cis, with new depths in her eyes, and 
strength and goodness being graven upon her pale 
face, who sat so quietly across from Anselm Lancas¬ 
ter in her golden, brown-furred gown that Christ¬ 
mas eve at dinner. 

After dinner, as usual. Miss Braithwaite repaired 
to her library fire. The night was cold; a sleet rain 
was falling, turning to ice as it fell; the fire was wel¬ 
come, its warmth and its cheer needed. 

“Anselm, before you begin to smoke, will you 
call the garage? I detest telephoning. Tell Leo to 
put the chains on my car, and not to fail to have it 
here by half past eleven; I will not drive faster than 
ten miles an hour to-night. Then you may light 
your cigar, and draw up to be agreeable to us,” Miss 
Braithwaite commanded her guest. “Cicely, dear, 
is it to be for you an order that keeps perpetual 
silence?” 

“I’m afraid no order, of any sort,” said Cis arous¬ 
ing herself. “Fancy me not talking! But we went 
to confession, you see, and after that I can’t say 
much for awhile. I’m thinking about Nannie, 
married to-morrow, and wondering what my birth¬ 
day resolutions ought to be.” 

She spoke softly, sitting close beside Miss Braith¬ 
waite, but Anselm Lancaster heard her low, yet 
resonant voice. 

He hung up the telephone receiver, and came 
back to the hearth. As he slipped into his waiting 
chair he laid on Cicely’s knee a package; evidently 
a book. 

She untied the cord and disclosed a translation 


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of the Missal, bound in tooled red leather, three 
ribbons hanging from its pages. 

“Oh!” cried Cis rapturously. “Oh, Mr. Lan¬ 
caster, how fine, how beautiful! Is it—” She 
checked herself, but, fluttering the leaves, her ar¬ 
rested question was answered. On the fly page 
was written in the close, small hand of one who 
wrote and thought much: “Cicely Adair. Her Lord’s 
birthday and her own. Christmas 1922.” 

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” cried Cis. “You 
can’t know how much I wanted it! Nor how I 
thank you! Truly, Mr. Lancaster, I’m so grateful 
I can’t say it. To think of you’re bothering with 
me. 

“Oh, but, my dear Miss Adair! I protest! Both¬ 
ering with you! How dreadful! And not grateful, 
you know! Aren’t we friends? You must not be 
grateful to a friend! But I hope you’ll like your 
Missal; of course you will! Now I’m talking non¬ 
sense, too! I wanted you to have it for the Mid¬ 
night Mass. You told me you’d never been to a 
midnight Mass! It’s supremely beautiful; the 
Adeste , and that fourth stanza at midnight: ( Ergo 
qui natus die hodiernal Will you say one tiny 
prayer for the Missal-giver?” cried Anselm Lan¬ 
caster, so boyishly that Cis, as well as Miss Braith- 
waite looked surprised, and Cis said with the great¬ 
est friendliness, out of her own boyish side: 

“I’ll say a big one! I’ll put you in with Miss 
Braithwaite and Nan. I’m going to receive for 
Nan; to-morrow is her wedding day. And someone 
who needs it most of all. I’ll put you into my in- 


296 


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tention, and if I mayn’t be grateful, Mr. Lancaster, 
I’ll be entirely ungrateful, but I’ll think you’re so 
good to me that I would be grateful if it weren’t ter¬ 
ribly wrong to be anything but ungrateful!” 

Anselm Lancaster threw back his head and 
laughed aloud, and Miss Braithwaite joined him. 
Cicely’s nonsense delighted her watchful friend; it 
was a symptom of health. Anselm Lancaster had 
never seen her mischievous; he found it delightful. 

The church of St. Francis Xavier was crowded, 
but pews were held till ten minutes after midnight, 
and Miss Braithwaite had brought her two guests 
thither ten minutes before midnight tolled out 
from the clock on the adjoining house and school 
building. 

The Mass was beyond words solemn and beauti¬ 
ful: the vestments of cloth of gold; the myriad 
lights; the scent of forest and incense; the great 
organ, the hundred choristers, the sublime music, 
the Adeste Fideles , sung with such fervor that all 
over the church people were sobbing with love for 
this inexpressibly dear hymn. With this the Mass 
marched on to its supreme moment, the greatest, 
the most inconceivable, the one infinite action of 
finite man, which encircles all creation, from Adam 
to the last born at the consummation of the world, 
performed in time, going on eternally. 

Cicely was wrapt into something like ecstasy. 
The Christmas eve which she had dreaded had be¬ 
come the highest hour of joy which she had ever 
known. She was swept beyond herself into the 


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rapture of the angels who first sang this Gloria to 
which she listened. 

God had tested her; she had not failed Him. 
Now He was rewarding her with a reward beyond 
her comprehension. She received this communion 
with her face wet with tears of joy. At last, at last 
she knew in Whom she had believed, blindly, yet 
faithfully believed. 

The rain had ceased when Mass was over; the 
congregation came out into starlight and an ice- 
clad world, shining under the light. 

“Oh, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, dear, 
dear Miss Braithwaite, Mr. Lancaster!” cried Cis 
turning back on the lower step of the church with 
radiant face. “Merry, merry, merry! For it\s 
blessedly merry to be a Catholic on Christmas and 
to be at Mass when the little Lord comes down!” 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE NEW YEAR 

AS THERE are fifteen minutes between tides 
when the ocean lies quiet at neither ebb nor 
flow, so the world seems to rest between Christmas 
and the New Year; preparations for holidays over, 
active work not resumed. 

Cis had decided to continue as Mr. Lucas’ secre¬ 
tary, at least until spring. Affairs in which he was 
interested had taken on sudden activity in ways and 
directions which would have made it hard for him 
to begin a new secretary at that time; entire fidelity 
to him and complete silence as to what had to tran¬ 
spire to his secretary were especially required now 
in her who filled that office. Cis knew, in spite of 
her lapse for Rod’s sake, that her successor might 
easily bungle things, as she never would, or inten¬ 
tionally talk, to her employer’s detriment. In view 
of Mr. Lucas’ proved interest in her, Cis felt in 
honor bound to stand by for the present, if she 
could do so. Yet there was upon her a restlessness 
of mind that impelled her to change, any change. 
“It was growing pains,” Miss Braithwaite told her, 
and Cis knew that she was right. She was growing, 
and the expansion of her powers called to her to 
give them scope. 

Yet Cis was growing steadily happier in Miss 

298 


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299 


Braithwaite’s home, and she knew that Miss 
Braithwaite thoroughly enjoyed having her there. 
Her sense of humor, which never could long be 
downed, was coming to the surface again; she made 
her hostess laugh with chuckling delight over her 
nonsense. Once more she was growing to be the 
frank, boyish Cis, who was excellent company and 
attractive to all sorts of people. With this revival 
of her old charm, Cis was acquiring the charm of 
one who lives intimately in the best companionship. 
She read eagerly, with Miss Braithwaite to guide 
her choice of books; she listened no less eagerly, 
and began to share talk as valuable as her reading. 
She met interesting people, and heard discussed 
measures of great import, helpful to individuals 
and to her country. She began to drift up to the 
edges of these things and to help in them, ever so 
little, but learning to do, to plan; being, unknown 
to herself, inducted into the great things now wait¬ 
ing on every hand for lay men and women to per¬ 
form. 

Father Morley came often to see Miss Braith¬ 
waite; he relied on her acumen, her remarkable 
powers for help in his undertakings. He, a tired 
man, not particularly strong, delighted in the re¬ 
freshment he received in her restful library, from 
her own wit and gracious talk; from her brain 
which understood at a half word much that he 
could not say. She put at his disposal all her re¬ 
sources of talent and wealth and social position. 

Father Morley was himself a person of rare cul¬ 
tivation of mind; he had been an omnivorous reader 


300 


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from his childhood; his remarkable education 
began long before his seminary days, exceeded text¬ 
books. 

He found Cis interesting; he recognized in her 
that capacity to soar which so far surpasses the suf¬ 
ficient goodness of excellent souls, and he made it 
his affair to help Miss Braitliwaite to hold up 
Cicely’s opening wings. She grew deeply attached 
to this tenderly kind, austere Jesuit, and yielded 
herself gratefully to his molding. 

Thus the winter swung into its steady pace after 
the New Year, and Cis was amazed to find that her 
days were not only peaceful, but full to overflow¬ 
ing, and that they were happy. There was an ache 
in her heart for Rodney; she did not forget, yet 
being an honest Cis, she realized that if he were 
to return to her he would not satisfy her as he had 
done; that in severing herself from Rodney Moore 
she had leaped over on to a height beyond him, and 
that from that hour she had gone on ascending. 

How strange it was that in doing right she had 
gained in time the good that had been promised her 
only for eternity! There was that ache in her 
heart for Rodney—what woman would not mourn 
a lost love, perhaps the more that she began to see 
the loss in its true light—but the Cis who had been 
for a quarter of a year the inmate of Miss Braith- 
waite’s house, associated with her and her friends, 
had grown beyond the girl who had been satisfied 
with Rodney Moore. 

As the winter evenings grew cold and drear, An¬ 
selm Lancaster sought no less frequently the cheer- 


THE CABLE 


301 


ful fireside, the laden shelves, the grand piano of 
Miss Braithwaite’s library; still more the delight¬ 
ful fireside talk of its mistress, whom lie admired 
with all his might. 

And Cis herself? Did he find her an attraction? 
Sometimes Miss Braithwaite thought so, but Cis 
surely did not. However, she had grown friendly 
and at ease with Anselm Lancaster, chatted with 
him, showed him her natural gifts, as well as the 
supernatural ones developing in her; washer frank, 
sunny self, and of course Anselm was not so stupid 
as not to find her likable, admirable. But there 
was no ground for seeing more in it than that, Miss 
Braithwaite decided, perhaps with relief. 

He talked to Cis of the things which interested 
him; of his work, his plans. Of his home, which 
he made a temporary home for those who had left 
home and relatives for conscience’ sake, who 
needed a foothold upon which to stand to catch 
the breath of the new atmosphere when the old had 
become too vitiated for them to continue to breathe 
it. Of his Italian classes, his organized effort to 
hold the immigrant against assault in the new land; 
of all the ramifications of his lay army to fight 
against Lucifer, the once-beautiful, the forever 
subtle and attractive. 

Cis listened enkindled. 

“It is splendid, glorious!” she cried. “If I stay 
in Beaconhite will you teach me how to do, and put 
me at something? I’ve got to pay back, a little, 
somehow!” 

“You could do anything with the Italians, Miss 


302 


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Adair. Will you study the language? It isn’t hard 
to learn it. And you could do much else; you’re 
a dynamic creature. But ‘if you stay in Beacon- 
bite’? Aren’t you sure of staying?” cried Mr. Lan¬ 
caster. 

“Not a bit,” declared Cis. “I don’t know 
what I may do, but this isn’t quite my own life. I 
love Miss Braithwaite a little more each day; I’d 
be thankful to go on here forever, if she needed me. 
She is greater than any other woman; there’s just 
one of her! But I don’t mean much here. I think 
there must be a place for me somewhere that will 
be my very own, something that I was meant to do. 
Sometimes I think I ll go home where I came from, 
but that isn’t sensible, either. Oh, I don’t know! 
I ll know, I suppose, when the time comes.” 

“That’s good sense and good theology—which is 
tantamount, though lots of people don't know it,” 
said Mr. Lancaster. “It seems to me that you have 
a decidedly real place here, as you put it. Miss 
Braithwaite is strong and active, but at sixty-five 
the goal is in sight. It seems to me that to stay on 
here, companion her, look after her, work in with 
her in her numerous ways of usefulness till you can 
carry them on alone as she drops out, is an oppor¬ 
tunity anyone might welcome. Miss Braithwaite is 
a power for good; there is no one whom I admire 
more, and everyone, from the bishop of the diocese 
to that small lame boy in whom you are interested, 
turns to her for help. To prolong such a life and 
make it happier—of course there is no better way 
to prolong life than by making it a happy life—it 



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303 


seems to me I’d think several times before I decided 
that was not a worth while chance for a young thing 
like you!” 

Cis returned the smile that Mr, Lancaster bent 
upon her, but she said: 

“That all sounds beautiful, and it is more than 
worth while; the only trouble is that I can’t imagine 
my doing it! I wonder where Miss Braithwaite is? 
Don’t I hear Ellen bringing someone in here?” 

Ellen pushed open the heavy doors of the 
library. 

“Miss Lucas and Mr. Lucas, Miss Braithwaite,” 
she announced, and Cis looked up to see Mr. Wil- 
mer Lucas coming forward, and behind him Jean¬ 
ette Lucas. 

“Oh, Miss Lucas!” Cis cried, and ran forward to 
greet Miss Lucas on a sort of track of red wool, 
trailing her crimson knitting by a needle caught in 
the fold of her gown, the little lame lad’s sweater 
which she was just finishing. 

“Oh, Miss Lucas, I am so glad to see you! Ellen, 
please find Miss Braithwaite; she may be in her 
room. How kind of you to bring your niece here, 
Mr. Lucas! You know Mr. Lancaster? Miss Lucas, 
this is Miss Braithwaite’s friend, Mr. Lancaster.” 

“I’m truly glad to see you. Miss Adair,” said Miss 
Lucas in that unforgettable sweet voice of hers. 
“And to see you so happy here. Uncle Wilmer has 
been telling me that he is grateful to father and me 
for sending you to him.” 

The two girls stood, their hands still clasped, 
looking at each other, both remembering where and 


304 


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how they had parted, the singular bond that united 
them, all that had come to pass since they had met. 

Jeanette Lucas looked years older; her face had 
lost its sweetness; it was as beautiful as ever—Cis 
thought that she had forgotten how lovely it was— 
but older lines, which barely escaped being bitter 
ones, had been graven on each side of her delicate 
lips, and her eyes were introspective, no longer 
meeting other eyes with ready sympathy. Her 
wound had gone deep, the cruel wound of finding 
unworthy someone whom one has utterly trusted, 
and of learning to unlove. She had withdrawn into 
herself to hide her hurt. 

Jeanette Lucas saw the girl who had been merry, 
frank and free, grown older, too, but in every way 
bettered by it. Never precisely pretty, Cis’s face 
had sweetened and softened; its whole effect was of 
a face that had been clarified and ennobled. Dressed 
in soft dull gold and brown, her wonderful hair 
topped the harmony of color like an aureole; in 
undefined motions, intonations, Cis had refined, be¬ 
come one of the world in which Jeanette Lucas had 
been born and always lived. 

Miss Braithwaite, hurrying in, interrupted this 
unconscious scrutiny of each other which absorbed 
the girls in oblivion to all else. She welcomed 
Jeanette cordially, even affectionately, putting her 
at once into Cicely’s chair close to hers before the 
fire. 

Anselm Lancaster dropped into his usual place; 
Mr. Lucas, in a capacious chair in the middle. For 
a moment Cis hesitated, then she took a low stool 



THE GABLE 


305 


and put herself close on the other side of Jeanette. 
It seemed to her that Anselm Lancaster found Miss 
Lucas interesting, and instantly Cis’s busy brain 
began to weave a plot to which the happy ending 
was intrinsic. 

“Father is perfectly well, thank you, Miss Braith- 
waite,” Jeanette was replying to Miss Lucas. “We 
went abroad on my account, but he profited from it 
more than I—except as it added to my knowledge. 
Father already had enough knowledge of pictures 
and architecture. We had a delightful trip, yes, 
thanks; England, France, Italy; Spain, to a limited 
extent. I’d like to go back. Why not go with me. 
Miss Adair?’’ 

“I am going; I’m saving up to go,” said Cis un¬ 
expectedly; Jeannette had not been in earnest. “I’m 
getting ready for it in other ways; Miss Braith- 
waite and Mr. Lancaster talk about Europe so much 
that I almost know which corner to turn to buy 
shoe-strings, or to see the best pictures in the gal¬ 
lery! I’ll show you the way around Europe, Miss 
Lucas, if you will let me go with you.” 

“Miss Adair can show you many other things be¬ 
sides the way around Europe, Jeanette!” Mr. Lucas 
corroborated Cis. “If ever the day dawns that I’m 
not involved in crises of several corporations and 
public affairs, simultaneously. I’ll take you both 
abroad; Miss Braithwaite shall go as duenna and 
Mr. Lancaster as cicerone.” 

“A contract, before witnesses!” cried Mr. Lan¬ 
caster. “I want to show you a picture in Florence 
for which you might have sat as model, Miss Lucas.* 



306 


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“How delightful! I’ll keep the appointment, 
Mr. Lancaster,” said Jeanette. “Miss Braithwaite, 
do you know why I’m here to-day?” 

“Because you knew how glad I’d be to see my 
little Jeanette again?” suggested Miss Braithwaite. 

“Dear Miss Braithwaite, I hope you are!” said 
Jeanette, touching Miss Braithwaite’s hand. “That’s 
dear of you, but that’s not why. We are in des¬ 
perate straits for a housekeeper. She must not be 
an ordinary person, but someone quite extraor¬ 
dinary. Father is going away, to be gone a year; 
possibly more. Mother is in wretchedly bad 
health; father will not leave to me the responsi¬ 
bility for that great house of ours, the children and 
the servants; rightly or wrongly, he doesn’t con¬ 
sider me competent to it. He wants a woman higher 
above suspicion than Caesar’s wife; competent to 
take charge; good, and she should not be a com¬ 
mon person, or the servants will not obey her, and 
I doubt that the children would; they’re keen-eyed 
little animals! I suggested to father that he had 
these qualities compounded in a laboratory, and 
the form containing them somehow galvanized into 
the semblance of a living human being, but he said: 
"Before we resort to such extreme measures to get 
the unlikely person we want, you run over to visit 
your uncle at Beaconhite, and see Miss Miriam 
Braithwaite. She is a such a good Roman that she 
has acquired some of St. Peter’s quality of fisher of 
men; she has all sorts of ramifications out, and no 
end of all kinds of people on her lines. Quite pos¬ 
sibly she may know precisely the person we need, 


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307 


and one who equally needs us.’ So here I am, Miss 
Braithwaite, at your mercy.” 

‘"Dear me, that’s a hard order to fill! Can you 
suggest anyone, Anselm?” began Miss Braith waite, 
when Cis interrupted with an exclamation. 

“Miss Gallatin!” she cried. “Nice, queer, splen¬ 
did Miss Hannah Gallatin!” 

“The very person! But why do you think she d 
go, Cicely?” said Miss Braithwaite. “She takes 
boarders, and is going on well, I think?” 

“I’m sure she perfectly detests taking boarders,” 
insisted Cis. “I believe she’d love to be with people 
like the Lucases, with children to help bring up, 
and someone she’d love, like Miss Jeanette! I’m 
sure she’s horribly lonely; she was dear and good 
to me; she would adore Miss Jeanette. Wouldn't 
it be all right to ask her?” 

“I am sure that Miss Adair has hit it!” cried Mr. 
Lancaster, rising. “I know Miss Gallatin well, and 
she is lonely, and she does loathe her present sur¬ 
roundings. I’m going home; I pass near her house. 
Would you like me to sound her for you, Miss 
Lucas ?” 

“I’d be most grateful,” returned Jeanette. 
“Though it makes my head whirl to find the im¬ 
possible right around the corner, turning possible 
under my eyes! I had no idea of getting so much as 
a clue to a person!” 

“This is the House of the Thaumaturgi; you see 
your friend, Miss Adair, is getting their powers; 
this suggestion was hers,” said Mr. Lancaster, and 
said good night. 


308 


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“Now you two children take each other off some¬ 
where, and compare notes on these past months 
since you met,” ordered Miss Braithwaite. “I sus¬ 
pect you want to see each other, and I know that I 
want to talk to Mr. Lucas, now that he has delivered 
himself into my hands!” 

“She doesn’t realize how little I really know 
you,” Cis said apologetically, as she led Jeanette 
to her own room. 

“Neither do I!” retorted Jeanette. “I think we 
agreed that circumstances had made us friends be¬ 
yond common measures of time and opportunity. 
May I speak like an old friend? May I call you 
Cis; will you call me Jeanette? That’s right! You 
have changed a great deal, Cis; you are wonderfully 
changed. So am I, but not for the better, like you. 
My uncle has told me what you have done. My 
dear, my dear, I am proud of you, and ashamed of 
me! You have been brave, faithful, and you are 
not whining! I’ve been bitter, awfully, horribly 
bitter, Cis! I hope it’s better now. I’ve been feel¬ 
ing that it wasn’t fair, what happened to me. I sus¬ 
pect it hurt my pride. I felt insulted, dragged down, 
as if God had dealt unfairly with me.” 

"Oh, my, no!” cried Cis. “God doesn’t deal un¬ 
fairly; why would He? You wouldn’t. But any 
girl would feel insulted in your place; it’s a shame! 
I thought so then, and I’ve been thinking so ever 
since. But it wasn’t God’s fault, you know. Don’t 
you suppose God saved you from worse sorrow?” 

“Yes, I do! He sent you, true-hearted and 
courageous, to interfere for me!” cried Jeanette. 


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309 


“Cis, I’ve blessed you before every shrine I visited 
in Europe and here!” 

“Then it’s likely that you saved me in your turn, 
Jeanette. I might easily have slipped my cable; 
likely you helped me hold,” said Cis simply. 

“Do you know what you have done. Cicely of the 
burnished hair? You have impressed my uncle 
Wilmer by your action, coming as it did on top of 
my great father’s choice of the Old Church, Miss 
Braithwaite, and other people and things. He is 
looking into the Church; he never would before! 
He told me he was going to satisfy himself just what 
this strange power rested upon that made ordinary 
people martyrs and saints! He is a prejudiced, 
strong-willed man, Cis, but he is an honest one, 
and you know what happens when honest people 
begin this study. Your hand set this in motion, 
Cicely Adair!” cried Jeanette. 

Cis looked up, then she looked down, for tears 
stood in her eyes. 

“Would you really call it my hand?” she asked. 

“Ah, well, the nails which hold the wall together 
do not drive themselves,” said Jeanette. “Cis, do 
you remember Mr. Singer, of the telephone office at 
home? I saw him lately; he asked about you. He 
told me that, although he was forced to dismiss you 
from the office for what you did, because it was a 
flagrant break of their rules, still he admired you 
exceedingly for it, as well as for your qualities as 
he knew them. He said that they were making a 
department of welfare work for their employees, 
and that he knew no one whom he would so well 


310 


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like to have over it as you. He said that if I came 
in contact with you he should be grateful if I would 
tell you this, and ask you to communicate with him. 
He said that he wanted a girl of high character, in¬ 
tegrity, kindness, and someone able to entertain 
and attract the girls whom she looked after; he 
added that you were the one above all others whom 
he had in mind. So I’m handing on the message, in 
spite of disloyalty to Uncle Wilmer! You can think 
it over. At least your dismissal, Cicely, is thus 
squared off! Mr. Singer did not betray that he 
knew it was I who was involved in your violation of 
the rule of the company, but I’m sure that he did. 
Do you want to come home again, Cis? It’s good 
for you to be here, but I’m selfish enough to wish 
you were at home again."’ 

“That was nice of Mr. Singer; thank you for tell¬ 
ing me, Jeanette. I don’t know what I want to do; 
I’m all at loose ends in my mind, but I think, after 
I’ve boiled for awhile, I’ll settle down; not boil 
over,” said Cis. 

“It takes a long time to get one’s bearings after 
an earthquake,” agreed Jeanette. “I’ve been 
wretched, unhappy, bitter, bewildered; I’m better. 
But, Cis, you don’t look like any of these things; 
you look good, sweet and good, and—well, clear 
is the word! It isn’t going to be a vocation, is it?” 

“For a convent? Oh, no; I’m afraid not. I’m 
not that sort; I’m active. Do you suppose there ever 
was a red-haired contemplative? Even though the 
hair was cut off when she was professed? I doubt 
it! You were always so good!” cried Cis. 


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311 


4 T don’t know, I don’t know! I wish I might go,” 
cried Jeanette. “It seems mean to offer yourself 
to God because a man failed you.” 

“It wouldn’t be that; it would be that a man 
showed you that only God was worth loving,” Cis 
corrected her with the insight that was new to her. 
“If God wanted you, why would you care how He 
got you? I can see that there are all sorts of ways.” 

“My dear, my dear, you have travelled far in a 
short while!” said Jeanette; then sighed and smiled. 
“We have come to the end of our talk; there is no 
more after that. Come back to Miss Braithwaite 
and my uncle.” 

“Anselm Lancaster called up, Jeanette and Cis,” 
Miss Braithwaite said as the girls came back into 
the library. “He says that Miss Gallatin was over¬ 
joyed at the suggestion of getting away from her de¬ 
tested business and looking after Lucases of as¬ 
sorted sizes. She is coming to see you, here, in the 
morning, Jeanette. You are to stay the night; I’ve 
arranged with your uncle, and I only hope that you 
may carry off with you that pearl of great price, 
Hannah Gallatin.” 

Miss Gallatin and Jeanette Lucas saw each other 
with perceiving eyes in the morning, and Jeanette 
went with Miss Gallatin in Miss Braithwaite’s coupe 
to find Mr. Lucas in his office to arrange for the 
speediest winding up of Miss Gallatin’s affairs. 

“You had an inspiration, Cis,” declared Miss 
Braithwaite when Jeanette Lucas had gone home 
again from Beaconhite, with all arrangements 
made for Miss Gallatin to follow her. “A lonely 


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woman, and a home that needs her. Jeanette Lucas 
will gain much from Miss Gallatin, and Hannah 
Gallatin will be lonely no more.” 

“I wonder—” Cis began, and stopped. 

“Yes?” Miss Braithwaite waited. 

“If I had another inspiration?” Cis went on. 
“May I say it? I wondered if Mr. Lancaster would 
not fall in love with Jeanette Lucas, and whether 
it would not be beautiful if he did?” 

Miss Braithwaite stared, then she laughed. 

“She’s a lovely creature, and I’d not blame any¬ 
one for falling in love with her—you have fallen 
a wee bit in love with her yourself! But, Cis, my 
dear, are you getting to be a matchmaker? That’s a 
sign of old age, poor Cis! Why, I’m not nearly old 
enough to try to pair people off—or am I old 
enough to know it’s a risky business, besides being 
hard to work? That would be a pretty pair, I ad¬ 
mit, and suitable. Well, well; possibly! Then you 
think my beloved Anselm is good enough even for 
Jeanette Lucas?” 

“For anyone; too good for almost anyone else,” 
said Cis promptly. “Miss Braithwaite, Jeanette 
said that she told you about the telephone welfare 
department at home, and Mr. Singer’s selecting me 
to run it. What ought I do?” 

“Come to dinner,” said Miss Braithwaite in¬ 
stantly, winding her arm around Cis to take her to 
the dining room. “And stay where you are till you 
get marching orders which can’t be forged. Dear 
me, are young girls the only ones that have a claim? 
How about an old girl who needs you? Stay with 


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me, Cecily Adair, at least till you can endure me no 
longer! You’re a bright spot of comfort, my child, 
and I like to see your red hair beside my red fire on 
the hearth!” 


CHAPTER XX 


THE OLD BOTTLE FOR NEW WINE 


r T 1 HE winter slipped away, melting into spring, 
A and Cis had not left Beaconhite. Increasingly 
interested in her completely transformed life, 
growing daily fonder of Miss Braithwaite, Cicely 
continued to serve Mr. Lucas happily in his office, 
finding the great matters constantly beneath her 
fingers more and more intriguing, going at night 
hack into that peacefully beautiful house, into its 
books, its charming talk, its lofty ideals. 

“I’m getting nicer and nicer!” Cis mocked her¬ 
self one night in her own room, before her mirror. 
It was perfectly true; she was “getting nicer” and 
was becoming something far more than her adjec¬ 
tive conveyed. 

When June came Miss Braithwaite announced to 
Cis that she was to take a vacation of three months 
and go with her touring the New England coast and 
the White Mountains. 

“I don’t know whether we shall go on up to Mon¬ 
treal or not; it shall be as we feel when the time 
comes. We will stop where we please, for as long as 
we please, and we will not measure our trip by 
miles but by satisfactions,” Miss Braithwaite said. 
Cis caught her breath in delight. 

“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “What a suggestion! 

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315 


It is rather flooring! But how can I go? I’ll lose 
my job! Mr. Lucas can’t hold on to a secretary who 
is flying all over New England!” 

“Easily,” replied Miss Braithwaite. “If you can 
broadcast a song by radio, you can broadcast a sec¬ 
retary by automobile! I’m not one bit afraid of 
your losing your job; besides. I’ve sounded Mr. 
Lucas!” 

Cis laughed. “Trust you to secure yourself— 
and me!” she cried. “Miss Braithwaite, I’ll prob¬ 
ably die of joy on the way; simply blow right up in 
the car.” 

“Let us hope that the car will not blow up with 
you and me both in it!” retorted Miss Braithwaite, 
well pleased with Cis’s pleasure. “It is quite settled 
that we are to spend the summer on wheels. I want 
you to see the ocean breaking over the rocks of that 
coast, you who have seen the ocean only as it comes 
up on New Jersey sands. I want you to hear it can¬ 
nonade into those rock-caves, and retreat from 
them in foam and spray. You’re too enthusiastic 
to miss a note of that vast harmony. Anselm Lan¬ 
caster says if we go he will drive after us and join 
us somewhere for July and August.” 

“How fine!” cried Cis, frankly delighted. “That 
will keep us from missing the hearth, if we are in¬ 
clined to. Mr. Lancaster will make it homelike, 
and how nice it will be for you to have him there 
to talk to!” 

Miss Braithwaite was regarding Cis sharply; she 
said: 

“Nice for you, too. will it not be? In case I’m 


316 


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in a lazy mood, he can drive you to any point that 
you should see.” 

“I’d hate to bother him,” said Cis. “But of 
course it will be great for me to have him with us. 
He’s no end good to me, takes me right in, because 
you do. Will he go alone?” 

“He didn’t speak of anyone else; I don’t know. 
He’s extremely fond of that recent convert who was 
an Episcopalian minister, Paul Ralph Randolph. 
Paul is having a hard time; perhaps Anselm will 
ask him to go with him. Then it’s settled. Cicely. 
I’ve spoken to Mr. Lucas, but you’d better speak of 
it to him in the morning.” 

Miss Braithwaite turned away as she spoke, and 
met Father Morley just coming in. 

After a few words with him, Cis ran away to 
write to Nan, and Miss Braithwaite laid before the 
Jesuit her summer plan. 

When she told him that Anselm Lancaster was 
likely to be added to the party, Father Morley lif ted 
his eyebrows inquiringly, without a word. 

“Yes, of course,” Miss Braithwaite agreed with 
him. “I see, but I don’t know, truly. I do know 
that the idea never crosses Cicely’s mind, and so, 
though I understand how and why the approaches 
to her mind are guarded against the entrance of the 
idea, still, it does seem to me that there can’t be 
ground for our entertaining it. It’s hard for me to 
believe in the novel heroine who has no suspicion 
that she is sought until the hero plumps himself 
down on his knees at her feet! I think, as a rule, 
a woman feels even the dawn of interest in her, the 


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317 


power of her attraction, before any onlooker can 
sense it.” 

“If she doesn’t subtly suggest to him that he ad¬ 
mires her?” suggested Father Morley, with his quiz¬ 
zical half-smile. 

“You* Ve been reading George Bernard Shaw!” 
cried Miss Braithwaite. 

“Nonsense! I’m ashamed of you! Thackeray 
said it before he did, but in point of fact one needs 
to read neither of them to know that law of natural 
history,” said Father Morley. “Well, and if Cicely’s 
preoccupation were wrong, and our half-formed 
suspicion were right, how about it? Would it do?” 

“At first I thought not, when it occurred to me,” 
said Miss Braithwaite. “I do not believe that two 
people can be happy together if the door to the 
deepest tastes and feelings of one will not yield to 
the hand of the other. To my mind it is madness 
to expect life to be anything but galling when it is 
lived in close proximity to a person to whom one 
may not speak of the things nearest to the heart 
whether for lack of sympathy in tastes or, still 
more, in principles. But I have come to think that, 
in this case, there would not be that lack; Cicely 
has an excellent mind, and rare perception; her big 
heart and loyal truth are rare. I am coming to think 
that it would do exceedingly well, and to fear that 
it may never happen. Would you approve it, 
Father?” 

“Oh, yes; yes, indeed! I make it a rule to ap¬ 
prove everything of that sort to which there is no 
actual objection. I’ve found that is the easiest way 


318 


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to an end that is sure to be reached, whatever I 
say,” replied Father Morley with his quiet smile, 
his eyes laughing at Miss Braithwaite’s chagrin at 
his provoking lack of enthusiasm. 

46 Well, I assure you it would be a lucky man who 
married Cis. She is a splendid girl,” Miss Braith- 
waite declared, as Cis came back in time to catch 
the last five words. 

“I hope you’re talking of Cis Adair?” she cried. 

“As it happens, I was,” said Miss Braithwaite. 

“At least I’m a fortunate girl,” said Cis quietly. 

Father Morley smiled at her with genuine ad¬ 
miration. 

“It is always a lucky person who may truthfully 
be called splendid; assuming that it is luck that 
carves character, which is at least open to debate.” 

“My funny little character lay down and let two 
skillful pairs of hands carve it,” said Cis with a 
grateful smile for these two people who had such 
a large part in her recent molding. 

The summer passed in the way Miss Braithwaite 
had planned, a summer of such delight to Cis that 
each night when she lay down to sleep she won¬ 
dered if it were really she. Cicely Adair, who was 
passing through scenes of natural beauty, such as 
she had never seen, in a luxurious car, with a com¬ 
panion who enhanced every beauty by her talk, 
linking it with other beauty, playing upon it with 
her wit and wisdom. When the mood was upon 
them they halted in a fine hotel, where Cis came 
into contact with a world that she had not known; 
where at night she danced in her pretty, thin frocks. 


THE CABLE 


319 


her glorious hair the observed of every eye, moving 
to orchestras that played perfect dance music per¬ 
fectly. 

The girl drank deep of youthful joy and blos¬ 
somed under it. She moved with a new grace added 
to her natural lissom, free carriage, and her face, 
alive with the interests filling her quick brain, 
transformed by suffering largely outlived, a temp¬ 
tation conquered, a soul at peace and knowing its 
way, was so attractive that no one ever stopped to 
consider whether or not she was beautiful. 

Anselm Lancaster had fulfilled his promise and 
had joined Miss Braithwaite on the north shore, 
beyond Boston, in July. His roadster sometimes 
followed, sometimes preceded Miss Braithwaite’s 
large car, driven by her man, and Paul Ralph Ran¬ 
dolph, the convert whom older Catholics were hon¬ 
oring for his sacrifices for conscience, with the 
ready admiration those born in the Church are 
quick to accord a convert, was Anselm Lancaster’s 
companion on the trip. Sometimes Miss Braith¬ 
waite rode with Anselm, Cis and Mr. Randolph in 
the big car; sometimes Cis went with Anselm in the 
roadster, while Miss Braithwaite welcomed Mr. 
Randolph to a place beside her and to the profound 
satisfaction which her wise talk gave the young 
man, hard beset on the new-old road, from which 
he had no temptation to turn back. 

Thus they went through the loveliness of the 
Massachusetts, New Hampshire and Maine coasts, 
turned off into the White Mountain region, but 
omitted for this time the Canadian possibility. 


320 


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Thus they made their way leisurely down again, 
through the Berkshires, back to Beaconhite, just as 
the children were trooping to school, and the hint 
of summer’s passing, autumn’s approach, was in 
the air. 

Miss Braithwaite was no wiser as to the future 
event which she had discussed with Father Morley 
than she had been in setting forth. Of Cis she was 
entirely sure; she had no thought in her mind of 
that which her friend considered for her. Of An¬ 
selm she was less sure, yet he gave her no actual 
ground for supposing that he perceived Cis in any 
different light from that in which Miss Braithwaite 
saw her as a dear, lovely, lovable and noble girl. 
Miss Braithwaite knew quite well that it is a totally 
other matter to want to marry a girl, than to see in 
her all sorts of desirable traits. 

They had not been back in Beaconhite quite two 
weeks when two things happened to change the di¬ 
rection of Miss Braithwaite’s plans, and Cicely’s, 
no less. 

An old friend of Miss Braithwaite’s, living in 
California, was desperately ill and begged her 
friend to come to her. Miss Braithwaite was going; 
she could not, nor would not refuse. 

Then Cis had a letter from Nan imploring her 
to come back to her old home in October. There 
would be a little boy, or a little girl, there then 
whose godmother Cis, and no one else, must be. 
Nan implored Cis to come to see her before her 
baby was born, and to stay on to sponsor it at the 
font. Miss Braithwaite had intended leaving Cis 


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321 


her house and servants to look after while she was 
gone, but this news from Nan focused Cicely’s 
vague intention to return to her old home, and she 
decided to go back when Miss Braithwaite went 
away. 

44 You will come back to me, Miss Adair?” Mr. 
Lucas had said when she told him that for a while, 
at least, she would not return to her desk. 

44 I hope so, Mr. Lucas; I suppose so,” Cis said. 
44 Miss Braithwaite wants me to come back when she 
gets home. If her friend dies, as seems likely, she 
will be saddened, and may need me a little bit when 
she comes home. I’m pretty sure to come back.” 

“Whoever may be in your place, I will gladly ex¬ 
change for you when you come,” said Mr. Lucas. 
“Promise me not to tell Jeanette a secret when you 
see her! I am not ready for them to know it, but 
you have a right to be told before you go. Your 
extraordinary choice of your Church when every¬ 
thing called you from her, impressed me to such an 
extent that I made up my mind to find out what was 
in her thus to raise people above themselves. I 
have been investigating it. I want to tell you, 
Cicely Adair, that I have found out.” 

“Oh, Mr. Lucas!” cried Cis jumping up with a 
radiant face. “I’m so glad, so glad! And I must 
tell you that you’ve no idea how much you’ll like 
the Church when you can stop investigating her, 
when you begin just to live with her! I’d no sort 
of idea how splendid she was! I’m so glad I have 
her, that now I think I didn’t sacrifice a thing then 


322 


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—though it did hurt at the time, and I came hor¬ 
ribly near slipping off.” 

Mr. Lucas laughed. “That’s not a bad tribute to 
your Mother, my dear,” he said, “though it’s a bit 
funny. I’m quite sure that I shall find her precisely 
what you say ‘when I begin to live with her’!” 

Miss Braithwaite went to California. Anselm 
Lancaster took Cis to the train to see Miss Braith¬ 
waite off, and then, an hour later, put Cis on her 
train to return to her home. 

“ ‘Always the best of friends,’ Miss Cis, like Joe 
Gargery and little Pip, aren’t we?” he asked, hold¬ 
ing Cis’s hand for a dallying moment of farewell. 

“Yes, indeed, if you’ll keep up your half of it, 
though I don’t know Joe Gargery, nor little Pip,” 
Cis said. 

“That doesn’t matter; they were the best of 
friends; that’s the salient point,” Anselm said. 
“And I don’t want you to forget that so are we. 
You’ll come back this winter, when Miss Braith¬ 
waite comes?” 

“I don’t know; I think so, if she wants me. I’ll 
miss her—and you—and the dear library; the 
whole wonderful house and my life in it, and all the 
kindness I’ve had, and the untellable things I’ve 
learned. Oh, I shall miss it all!” Cis choked. 

“Only for a visit; you’re going only for a visit! 
Beaconhite holds you on the other end of a tether! 
Good-bye, Miss Cicely. I’m afraid the sunshine 
goes out with your hair.” Anselm pressed Cicely’s 
hand hard, put into her lap a book and a box of 
candy, together with a long box with a protruding 


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323 


ribbon over one side, all of which Cis had pre¬ 
tended not to see, though she knew quite well what 
their purpose was, and she felt a girlish satisfaction 
in being thus freighted and sped. 

The train rolled out of the station, and Cis was 
on her way home. 

It was a long, tiresome journey, but it gave Cis 
time to consider her history since she had made the 
same journey in the reverse direction. A lifetime 
lay between the journeys, it seemed to her. Basic¬ 
ally she was the same Cicely Adair who had come 
to Beaconhite to try her fortune; in her on that 
day had lain the potential qualities and attitudes of 
mind which these months had brought out, but so 
tremendous had been all that had happened to her, 
so far-reaching in its effect—reaching as far as all 
eternity—that it was by no means the same Cis 
who was going back to Nan. 

At the station, when Cis arrived in the growing 
dusk, a young man came forward to greet her. He 
was attired in such perfection that his effort to ap¬ 
pear at his best positively screamed aloud to all 
passers-by. Cis did not know him, and, though he 
was bearing down on her, it was with a hesitation, 
in spite of his advance toward her, that spoke a like 
uncertainty in him. Only when he came quite up 
to her did Cis cry: 

“Well, Tom! Tom Dowling! To think of my not 
knowing you! Nice of you to come!” 

“I wasn’t sure of you, Cis,” said Tom uneasily. 
“You’re—you’re awfully different!” 

“That’s true, I am,” said Cis. “But you’ve grown 


324 


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up since I saw you. You’re not bigger; I don’t 
mean that, but you're grown up!” 

“Right you are!” declared Tom with a slight 
swagger. “But I’m hardly any younger than you; 
don’t try to talk like a grandmother! Girls get old 
quicker. You’ve what is it? Side?” 

“Goodness, is it?” laughed Cis. “Aren’t we going 
somewhere, Tom? We aren’t going to stay here all 
night, are we? It was good of Nan to send you to 
meet me.” 

“Good/ Of Nan! To send me!” Tom cried in 
a series of small explosions. “Gosh! As though a 
man had no mind of his own! As though Nan sent 
me, like a kid! I tell you, Cis, I’ve hardly been able 
to sleep since I heard you were coming, for fear I’d 
miss meeting your train! I tell you, Cis, it’s been 
hard sledding with you gone, and if I’ve grown old 
it’s from missing you, if you want to know!” 

“Well, Tom! That’s a dear boy to remember Cis 
so hard,” said Cis, falling back into her old boyish 
way of speaking, association with the place and 
with the lad to whom she had returned, calling it 
out. But she found this earnestness of Tom’s 
wearisome, and devoutly wished that he had not 
been so loyal to her memory. 

“Come over to the taxi stand,” said Tom. 
“Here, give over that suitcase. Checks?” 

“One check, one small trunk,” said Cis yielding 
up her case and check to this protector. 

Tom handed her check to an expressman, and 
gave him the address of Nan’s house. Then he re* 


THE GABLE 


325 


sumed his way toward the taxi stand, holding Cis 
by one elbow. 

As he put her into the cab, and entered it him¬ 
self he said: 

“Say, Nan has a son; three days old, he is. She 
wouldn’t let them telegraph you for fear you’d hold 
off coming a little. But she told me to tell you that 
she was so crazy to see you that it would do her 
more good to have you walk in than even to see the 
baby! And heaven knows, she’s wild over him, 
though, honest; he’s not such a much! I never saw 
one so young, and I think age improves ’em more’n 
it does wine.” 

“Oh, Tom, of course she’s wild over her baby 
son!” cried Cis. “I’m going to be wild over him 
myself! He’s to be one third mine; Nan said so. 
He’s my godson, or will be, as soon as we can get 
him n ide so. What’s his name?” 

“Matt, Matthew, for Joe’s father; I’m not keen 
for it,” said Tom. “Joe wanted it, and Nan al¬ 
ways likes to please him, so it’s Matt. Nan wanted 
him called Cyril.” 

“I like Matt better; Cyril is too dressy for Nan’s 
boy; she’s such a simple, dear little mouse!” said 
Cis decidedly. “Oh, Tom, here we are!” 

“Well, Cis, dear, didn’t you think if the taxi went 
on running we’d get here?” asked Tom, intending 
to be humorous, and helping Cis out. 

Nan held out her arms when Cis came up the 
stairs, running to her headlong. 

“Oh, Cis; oh, Cis! I’m so glad!” Nan cried, and 
Cis kissed her with tears, repeatedly. 


326 


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Nan a wife and now a mother! Not only for Cis 
had these months been full of changes. Nan had a 
son to praise God for, but Cis—what had she? 
Less? No; more! A son was another soul to re¬ 
joice over, but Cis felt that the creation of her soul 
was a wonder greater than ordinary birth. 

Nan looked at her with appraising eyes, as Cis 
arose from her knees beside her, covered over the 
face of tiny Matt, held in the hollow of his mother’s 
arm, and fell back a step or two, looking down on 
Nan. 

“Cis, you have changed! But it is all for the bet¬ 
ter!” cried Nan. “You don’t look one bit un¬ 
happy; your eyes are lovely, dear! and you are— 
what is it? Like a very fine, fine lady, Cis! You’ve 
written me of your lovely friend, that wonderful 
Miss Braithwaite, and her house, and her friends, 
but—what has happened to you?” 

“Everything, Nan! I am happy, but I’m still 
more thankful. It has been a miracle-time for me, 
more so, even, than for you. I’ll tell you when I 
may; you must not be tired. I’m quite all right, 
Nannie; be sure of that,” said Cis. 

'"You look it,” said Nan slowly. “It will not tire 
me to hear it all to-night. Mother is here. Go 
down and find her, and have your tea. Joe will be 
home in a few minutes.” 

Cis went down. Mrs. Dowling greeted her with 
her old manner of uncertainty as to what Cis 
might be about to do next, but it rapidly gave 
way to wonder, and then to constraint. Cis did 
not intend to produce any such effect, nor was 




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327 


she conscious that she did so, but about her 
was the fine atmosphere of Miss Braithwaite’s 
house, and her recent associations with minds 
and souls informed with knowledge, divine and 
human. Mrs. Dowling began half to fear Cis, 
and then to entertain a hope that Tom, whose in¬ 
fatuation for Cis had always distressed her, might 
find favor in the eyes of this charming girl, whose 
pretty clothes were worn with an air, whose pretty 
manners were wholly unconscious. 

That evening Cis was allowed to spend an hour 
with Nan; she drew a low chair beside her, laid her 
godson, a roll of soft white wool, across her knees, 
and made ready to talk. 

“Cis, dear, am I to know what happened? ’ asked 
Nan timidly. “I saw Mr. Moore when he was here, 
looking for you. I could not understand, hut evi¬ 
dently he could not, either. What was wrong? Or 
do you mind telling me?” 

“No. I expected to tell you, Nannie. I did mind 
writing about it. It is all right now; I am thank¬ 
ful to say that I’m happy, as I told you I was, and 
I can talk about it.” 

Then Cis told, simply, but completely, the story 
of her engagement and its breaking, giving more 
expression to her own fight against temptation than 
she had ever done to Miss Braithwaite. 

Nan listened with wide eyes, breathless, not in¬ 
terrupting. When Cis ended, with a long breath 
of relief that the story was told, Nan put out her 
hand and softly touched Cis, her eyes full of tears, 
but fuller of adoring love. 



328 


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“To think that I used to be afraid you were not a 
good Catholic!” she said. “To think that I imagined 
that I was a better one than you were, I, who never 
in all my life suffered one little pang for my faith! 
Why, Cis; why, Cis, dearest! I’m so glad I know 
you! And I’m so glad that little Matthew will have 
you for a godmother! I am almost sure that he 
will be a priest, and may be a saint!” 

“You little ninny-Nanny!” cried Cis, jumping 
up, almost forgetting the baby, but saving him from 
a fall by a clutch on the outer layer of his many 
envelopes. “You must be getting tired; a little 
light-headed! I’m going off. If ever you say any¬ 
thing so silly to me as that again I’ll cut your ac¬ 
quaintance, and ungodmother your son! So there!” 

She kissed Nan good night, gave her little son to 
her, and ran off to her own room. 

“They’re nice, good people, and Nan is a darling, 
always was, but—Beaconhite seems like home, not 
here, and no one here seems to me like anyone I 
ever knew well,” thought Cis; she looked sadly at 
herself in the mirror as she braided her glowing 
hair. 

There is no exile so remote, no loneliness so 
profound as the return to old associations which 
have been completely outgrown. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE WEAVING 

IS stayed on, living on the surface of her little 
native city. Miss Braithwaite was still in Cali¬ 
fornia; she wrote that she could not tell how long 
she might be detained; it seemed probable that it 
would be for all of the winter, or its greater part. 
Her friend was dying slowly in the lingering agonies 
of the most agonizing of all diseases; she clung to 
Miss Braithwaite, praying her not to leave her, and 
Miss Braithwaite had promised to stay to help her 
to die. Cis suspected it was also to teach her how 
to die; that she was less versed than Miss Braith¬ 
waite in the science of the saints. 

With Miss Braithwaite gone, Cis had no desire to 
return to Beaconhite; it was not the place, it was 
that home and its mistress for which Cis longed, for 
the lack of which she felt lost. 

Mr. Singer had found out that Cicely Adair had 
returned, and he hunted her up, imploring her to 
take up his work with his telephone girls, help to 
organize the measures which he was trying to put 
on foot for their welfare. Cis agreed to undertake 
this work, but only with the understanding that she 
was free to lay it down at any time. Her experience 
under Miss Braithwaite, in Father Morley’s Girls’ 
Club, in the many good works which occupied her 

329 


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Beaconhite friends, stood Cis in good stead now; 
she did well with Mr. Singer’s girls, and was in¬ 
terested in them. It was strange and amusing to 
have gone away, dismissed by the Telephone Com¬ 
pany for a breach of law, and return to be placed 
over their employees’ pretty rooms for recreation 
and rest, installed as the hostess, friend and guide 
of these girls. 

Cis visited Jeanette Lucas often; the two girls 
were strongly drawn to each other; their friendship 
deepened and grew. Jeanette had come out of her 
trial with a darkened outlook upon life. Cis had 
come out of her struggle and loss undismayed, 
strengthened, in a sense refreshed, reaping the re¬ 
ward of her choice. Although there were moments 
when a simple tune whistled by a boy in the street, 
a phrase, a half resemblance stabbed her with pain, 
yet Cis was able truthfully to tell Nan that she was 
happy. By temperament and will she was framed 
to look forward, not back. Her optimistic courage 
was inspiring to Jeanette; she grew fond of Cis 
and turned to her as to a tonic, a summons to do her 
best also. 

Nan was submerged in her house, in its master 
and little Matt. She paid Cis her old loving wor¬ 
ship, raised to an incalculable degree by her rever¬ 
ence for Cis as for one who had given her proofs, 
but there was no time in any day to spare for any¬ 
one but Joe and Matt. Nan and Cis met in the baby 
more intimately, more frequently than in each 
other, outside this powerful little downy link. 

To her amazement, Cis discovered herself a baby 


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worshiper; she had not known that she was a mem¬ 
ber of that order, in one of its highest degrees. 

Her godson was to her hardly less adorable than 
to his mother. She hung over him, absorbing his 
violet-scented, milky sweetness as the odor of a 
flower; brooding over the miracle of his tiny 
features, their curious twistings, the crooked smile 
of his sucked-in lips; the funny thrusts of his ab¬ 
surdities of hands, doubled into fists and taking her 
in the eye, or letting her mumble them with kisses 
that inclosed the wrinkles of his wrists, the blue- 
blue veins traced below the whiteness of the backs 
of those belligerent little hands. When he looked 
into her eyes and laughed aloud, clutching her 
wealth of hair, Cis was elated, humbled, flattered. 
In baby Matt she found a new joy that revealed her 
to herself; she knew now what she had renounced 
when she had gone out of that pretty apartment, 
leaving Rodney there amid the ruins of his hopes 
and hers. Not for an instant did she regret, turn 
back in thought upon her right course, but she un¬ 
derstood the void which ached in her, and often the 
baby’s fine white tiny yoke was damp when his god¬ 
mother raised her face from it, while he was gurg¬ 
ling with laughter because she had burrowed into 
his neck, tickling him. 

Cis boarded with Nan. “Of course you couldn’t 
so much as think of living anywhere else, as long as 
I have room for you and want you so dreadfully! 
Besides, there’s baby!” Nan had said, and there 
was nothing to bring against her brief, convincing 
arguments. 


332 


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“It isn’t as though I were going to be here per¬ 
manently,” Cis said. “I think no one ought per¬ 
manently to live with a married friend, but just till 
I go back to Beaconhite—or whatever I do next—I 
suppose it won’t be too hard on you, Mrs. Nan!” 

Tom Dowling was a model of fraternal devotion 
after Cis was installed under Nan’s roof; he made 
opportunities to visit his sister to an incredible de¬ 
gree. 

“Good old Tommy is a dear boy, but I wonder if 
he really thinks I don’t see through him!” Nan 
cried. 

“Paraffine paper is thick beside his transparency; 
you’d be more than blind to miss seeing through 
him,” Joe answered. 

Tom brought extraordinary things to the baby, 
toys which would require two more years of life 
for him to handle—a whipping top is not adapted 
to a boy two months old, nor is a tin locomotive run 
by sand that flows upon its wheels from a revolving 
sieve, hidden in its smokestack. 

“Oh, Tommy, why, why!" Nan sighed one day 
when Tom produced a large cow, with a realistic 
moo when its head was moved, from a large pack¬ 
age beneath his arm. 

“He’ll grow to it; something to cut his ambition 
on, same’s you give him that bone thing to chew on 
for his teeth,” explained Tom, unabashed. 

“Tom’s really a dear, Cis,” Nan said that night 
after Tom had gone home. “Mother is perfectly 
delighted that he has stuck to you so; she used to 
hope he’d see Louise Muller, a neighbor’s daughter. 




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but he never did. Now mother is worrying for fear 
you won’t care about him. Do you think that you 
ever coulu, Cis darling? Of course all these cows, 
and tops and engines are not for baby; they’re for 
you, same as the candy is.” 

“I don’t seem to enjoy the cow any more than 
Matt does; must I play with it. Nan? Tom didn’t 
offer it to me,” Cis sighed. 

“Not directly. I mean they’re all intended to 
make you notice him. I’d almost die of joy, Cis, if 
you were my sister!” cried Nan. 

“Adopt me, Nannie. We can make it as effect¬ 
ual, and I’m afraid it’s the only way,” Cis suggested. 
“Don’t look cast down; Tom will be all right, and 
it’s better to have him imagine he cares about me 
than to be growing up without an object. He’ll find 
the right girl later, and in the mean time it keeps 
him safe for her.” 

“Growing up! He’s as old as you are, or so 
nearly it comes to the same thing!” cried Nan. 
“You don’t take Tom seriously, but he takes him¬ 
self—and you—seriously enough.” 

“Boys do,” said Cis. “Don’t fuss, little grand¬ 
mother; it’s enough to be a mother and bring up 
Matt. He’s learning to love me, too, by the way!” 

As the days passed, however, Cis began to take 
Tom more seriously; he began to be a burden on 
her mind. He dogged her footsteps; wherever she 
went Tom turned up. He watched for chances to 
do her small services, carried out her least sugges¬ 
tions, modelled himself upon the advice which she 
had given him when she had first come back, be- 


334 


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fore she realized that she must not let him conform 
himself to her ideas, before she began to look upon 
him as anything more than Tommy Dowling, Nan’s 
honest and likable boy-brother. 

“If only Miss Braithwaite would come back!” 
thought Cis. “I’d go away and he’d do something 
sensible with himself! All I can do now is to hold 
him down, and hold him off, but I’m really begin¬ 
ning to be afraid it’s bad for him.” 

One bright, frosty afternoon, when the earth was 
white and the sky brilliantly blue, Cis went off 
alone to walk in the park. A homesick spell was 
upon her; she was homesick for Miss Braithwaite, 
for the shadowy library and its glowing hearth; for 
Mr. Lucas’ office and its interests, the clever, keen 
men who came there talking of great matters; her 
sense of being part of a world moved by levers hid¬ 
den in that office. And she wondered why it was 
that for some time she had heard no word of An¬ 
selm Lancaster. He had written her several pleas¬ 
ant letters, had sent her a book at Christmas that 
was a delight to brain and eye. He had wished her 
a Happy New Year with a graceful note and a 
lovely little Florentine print in colors, framed in 
dull, dark, carved wood; a Botticelli Madonna sur¬ 
rounded by square-chinned, deep-eyed angels in 
tunics, upon which their square-trimmed locks fell 
at shoulder length, while their long fingers clasped 
tall candles that revealed to the world a Babe upon 
His Mother’s knee. 

There was growing in Cicely a discontent that she 
could not down; she grappled with it, hating it, for 


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335 


no mood had ever mastered her, nor greatly an¬ 
noyed her heretofore, and this restlessness was an¬ 
noying; it got between her and her daily life; her 
prayers; between her and herself, her true self, 
brave and blithe and courageous. She wanted to 
walk briskly in the pretty park and think out what 
was wrong with her, take herself to task, and scotch 
the head of this miserable little asp gnawing at her. 
But hardly had she gone half the width of the park, 
its longest way, than there was Tom Dowling, com¬ 
ing rapidly toward her, his face illumined, his right 
arm saluting her. 

“Oh, me!” sighed Cis inwardly. “Who wants a 
human being omnipresent? Hello, Tom!” she 
said aloud. “How do you happen to be here at a 
time when all honest folk are at work?” 

“Nothing dishonest about me, Cis,” said Tom, 
joining her and turning to walk beside her as a mat¬ 
ter of course. “Why, I got the afternoon, and I 
went to the house. Nan said you'd gone to the park. 
I went around the other way; thought you’d take 
the north gate. Anyhow, I’ve found you!” 

The satisfaction in Tom’s voice was complete. 

“Yes, Tom, but—” Cis hesitated. 

“You’d rather be by yourself?” cried poor Tom. 
“Oh, Cis, you’ve played fair with me! You’re nice 
to me, but you’re nothing more. I won’t be able to 
blame you, but if you won’t love me, what under 
the heavens shall I do? Say, Cis, love me, can’t 
you? I’m not such a much, but I ain’t so bad, 
honest! I don’t care how far you hunt, you won’t 
find anything I’ve done to he ashamed of. I ain’t 


336 


THE CABLE 


fit for you lots of ways; you’ve got kind of fine 
ladified, though I don’t mean you put on. You’re 
it, that’s all! But I’m not a bad chap, that’s straight, 
and if I was I’d tell you; I wouldn’t fool you for a 
kingdom. I’m getting on; I make thirty now, and 
two people could live on fifteen hundred, easy— 
and the sixty dollars would buy us each some 
clothes, and theatre tickets, or something! And 
I’ll have more soon. My boss makes a point of 
boosting married men—oh, gosh! A married man! 
Married to you , Cis! Say, Cis, don’t you think you 
could see it, if you looked hard enough? Love me, 
I mean?” 

“Tom, dear,” said Cis a little wistfully, for the 
honest boy’s voice shook, and his eyes were as im¬ 
ploring as a dog’s eyes. “I like you heaps, better 
than before I went away. I didn’t know you so 
well then, and besides you’ve come out a great deal. 
But I couldn’t love you, Tommy; not that way. 
I’m sorry, dear. You are a fine boy, and the girl 
who does marry you will be lucky. It never will 
be me, and it wouldn’t be right to let you think it 
ever might be. Sorry, Tom! I wish you didn’t 
think you wanted me. You’d be better off with 
someone else, and you’ll find her—” 

“Cut it out!” cried Tom hoarsely. “Cut out that 
line of talk, Cicely Adair! You're the greatest girl 
in the world. There’s no one can hold a candle to 
you, so cut it out! If you wont, you won’t, but 
cut out all that talk. I want you, and I’ll keep on 
wanting you. If you don’t want me, and don’t want 
me so much that you know you’ll never want me, 



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337 


that settles it, but I want you. Oh, Cis, why can’t 
you want me? What is wrong with me? How can 
you be so infernally sure you’ll never think of it? 
Am I such a mess? Would you tell me why, Cis?” 

Cis looked pityingly at Tom’s flushed, stormy 
face, listened with tender, pitying amusement to his 
incoherent implorations. She tried to explain. 

“It’s not that there’s one thing wrong with you, 
Tom,” she said. “It’s I. I’m not thinking of mar¬ 
rying. I’ve grown years older than you are, Tom, 
and I’ve grown ever so far off from the old Cis 
whom you first knew and liked. I suppose you 
knew I was going to be married? I’m glad, thank¬ 
fully glad that all that is over; I wouldn’t be happy 
now in the way I thought I’d be happy then, not 
with the same people, interests. But I shall never 
again feel as I felt then, so glad to see someone com¬ 
ing, so—I’m afraid it is much the way you feel to 
me now, Tom dear! Truly you will get over it. 
It leaves you changed, older, not so light-hearted, 
but it leaves you; it has left me. I shall never so 
much as think of marrying you, my nice Nan’s nice 
brother; yet I am fond of you, and think you’re 
fine.” 

“I don’t want to get over it,” groaned Tom. 
“If I can’t marry you I can keep on loving you and 
that way you do sort of get a person.” 

“I think we ought to try to get over it, Tom, be¬ 
cause we’ve got to play up, not go moping along,” 
said Cis. “Let’s forget you love me; in that way, 
at least, and let’s be glad you love me, or will love 
me, more as you do Nan, just as I love you. It 


338 


THE CABLE 


makes the world a fine place to live in when we 
know splendid people who are fond of us. Bea- 
conhite, living in Miss Braithwaite’s house, rather 
spoiled me for other places, Tom. You’ve no idea 
what a library that is, and what wonderful things 
I heard talked of before the fire!’’ 

“Yes, so I’ve heard you say,” growled Tom. “The 
old lady herself was a wonder, but how about that 
man, that Lancaster who was such a highbrow?” 

There was no missing the implication in Tom’s 
wrathful voice. Cis felt her blood rush to her hair 
in a burning blush that rivalled the hair in bril¬ 
liance, and which angered her, knowing the conclu¬ 
sion which Tom would draw from it. Character¬ 
istically, she grappled with the situation. 

“If you mean to hint, Tom Dowling, that Mr. 
Lancaster was interested in me, any more than in a 
girl living under his old friend’s roof, or I in him, 
more than in the most splendid man I ever saw— 
except Father Morley, but priests don’t count— 
you’re ’way, ’way off the mark! I never once 
thought of such a thing as his really liking me, and 
you’ve got to take my word for it!” 

“All right, Cis. I’d take your word for anything, 
and I’m fearfully glad to take it on this,” said Tom. 
“I’ve been jealous of that chap, but that settles it, 
and him. If you won’t hold out a chance to me it’s 
some comfort not to think someone else has a 
chance. I guess you’re right that Beaconhite has 
ruined you. If only you’d never gone! You ran 
into the whole thing there.” 

Cis knew that Tom meant that there she had met 


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339 


and loved Rodney, and there had been separated 
from her earlier friends by the higher things to 
which she had grown up. It came over her with 
sudden force that in Beaconhite she had indeed 
found her fate. 

She looked across the park with eyes that saw 
Beaconhite, the dignified street on which Miss 
Braithwaite lived in its most dignified house; the 
street where St. Francis Xavier’s church stood; the 
garden of its adjoining school; Father Morley’s thin 
figure with its drooping shoulders; the altar within 
the church, its lamp, her soul’s home. Beacon¬ 
hite was her true home. Some day, she thought, 
please God, she would go back. 

And then her eyes became cognizant of her pres¬ 
ent surroundings. She saw at a little distance from 
her, a tawdry, shabby woman sitting upon a park 
bench, although it was cold, and her silken clothes 
were thin. There was no mistaking her, even afar, 
for anything but one of those derelicts which sin, 
having floated them prosperously for a time, throws 
up against the barriers of civilized society to be 
dashed to pieces, or caught up by a pitying life¬ 
guard, as the case may be. 

As Cicely noted her, bringing her thoughts back 
to what was before her, the woman covertly drew 
something out from the sleeve of her coat, and 
picked at it. 

A bottle! And she was pulling the cork! 

Cis sprang forward and ran, not delaying for a 
word to Tom, flying toward the wretched being on 
the bench. As she reached her the woman, who 


340 


THE GABLE 


had seen her fleeting toward her, raised the bottle 
to her lips. 

Cis sprang; leaped the last lap of her race against 
suicide; threw herself, as a ball player throws him¬ 
self against the base, and struck the woman’s elbow. 
The bottle fell in myriad pieces on the walk, scent¬ 
ing the air with the odor of peach stones. The 
woman crumbled up and slid to the ground. For 
one instant she and her rescuer were beside each 
other upon the walk. Then Cis regained her feet 
and stood looking down upon the degraded figure 
before her, horror, loathing, yet divine pity in her 
flushed face. This was the tableau which Tom, 
hastening after Cis, saw as he came up. 

“For heaven’s sake, Cis?” he questioned her 
without formulating his question. 

“Oh, yes, Tom, for heaven’s sake!” cried Cis. “I 
just made it. If the police come up and catch us, 
she’ll be taken in for attempted suicide. We must 
get her somewhere, quick.” 

“Well, what if she is taken in?” Tom disgustedly 
asked, hating to see Cis in proximity to this woman. 
“She’ll be looked after by the matron.” 

“Oh, no! She must be saved, if she can be. Ar¬ 
rest won’t save her. Can you hear me? Answer me. 
Were you a Catholic?” Cis asked, bending over the 
collapsed figure. 

“Once I was,” the woman muttered. 

Cis straightened herself triumphantly. “The 
Good Shepherd!” she cried. “Tom, help me to get 
her up. You poor thing, get up! We are going to 
take care of you. Get up.” 


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341 


Tom reluctantly, yet admiring Cis, lifted the 
castaway, and, staggering, she made out to stand. 

“Let me alone; I’m sick,” she moaned. 

“Yes, we know. Try to come with us. I’m afraid 
a policeman will come along,” Cis urged her. 

The word acted as a stimulant. “They’d run me 
in, vagrant, suicide,” she muttered. “What did 
you stop me for? I’ll get it yet.” 

Slowly, Tom supporting the woman with his 
hands under her arms, disgust and anger on his 
face, while Cis walked behind, occasionally steady¬ 
ing the wavering figure by a hand upon her spine, 
they reached the confines of the small park. Cis 
hailed a cab; they bundled the woman into it, and 
Cis gave the driver his order. 

“To the House of the Good Shepherd,” she said. 

Then she added herself to the strange party, and 
the cab started. v 

“The Sisters won’t thank us, perhaps,” muttered 
Tom. 

“Surely they will! There’s no bound to their 
charity, and no bound to hope, except death,” cried 
Cis. “She is desperately ill.” 

“Dissipation, dope, exposure, why wouldn’t she 
be ill?” growled Tom. “It’s a great combination 
for you to hitch up to, Cis.” 

“I don’t know. My guardian angel hitches up 
to me, and there’s more difference between me and 
an angel, than between this woman and me. Are 
you comfortable? Do you hear me speaking to 
you?” Cis asked. 

“I hear. I heard. I don’t want to go to the 


342 


THE GABLE 


Sisters; I want to die, die, die! Eve had enough,” 
the woman aroused herself to say. 

“Poor soul, Fm sorry!” Cis’s voice was as sweet 
as Nan’s when she comforted her baby. “I think 
you’ll be glad that we found you. Why, you’re 
quite young, and you were pretty!” 

“Pretty! Yes, that’s so. I’m twenty-eight or 
nine; I don’t know—” the quavering voice trailed 
into silence. 

“Do you remember your name? Will you tell it 
to me, so I can call you by it?” said Cis. 

“Lots of names, lots of names; plenty names. 
Here Fm Pearl Molineaux. Out in Frisco I was 
Carmin Casanova. Giddy Gay—that was some¬ 
where else; I forget. Home in Chicago I was Myrtle 
Moore; that’s while I was married,” the woman 
said, speaking slowly. 

“Chicago!” “Myrtle Moore?” Cicely’s heart 
gave a great leap, then stood still. Could it be? 
She was sure that it was! She was sure that it had 
been given her to save from suicide Rodney’s wife. 

She bent down over the woman who had sagged 
low in the seat of the taxicab. 

“You are the wife of George Rodney Moore?” 
she asked. 

“No. Divorced. Rod and I were divorced,” she 
said. 

“Oh, God help me!” Cis murmured, and Tom 
was frightened by the pallor of her face. 

“Oh, God, I’ll try! Please, help me! Help her; 
help me to help her!” 

The cab stopped at the door of that beneficent 


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343 


house wherein stainless women welcome within 
their consecrated walls the outcasts whose stains of 
soul their pure hands labor to remove; wherein the 
virgin servants of the Good Shepherd carry back to 
Him His lost black sheep. 

Myrtle Moore was reluctant to enter that portal, 
but her strength was spent, her will too enfeebled 
by illness to resist anyone who decided for her and 
forcibly executed their decisions. 

Tom helped Myrtle up the steps; the Sister 
Portress responded to their summons on the bell, 
and they were shown into a small parlor, from 
which Cis was conducted to another reception 
room, where a tall nun, in the beautiful white habit 
of her order, came to hear from her the story of 
this latest rescue and petitioner for her charity. 

There was no question of Myrtle’s rejection. An¬ 
other nun came to take her away to the infirmary, 
and Cis left the convent with the promise to come 
regularly to inquire after Myrtle, whose condition 
the infirmarian at once pronounced grave. Tom 
took Cis’s hand and slipped it into his arm; she 
was trembling. 

“Great old adventure, splendid Cis?” he said. 

“Oh, Tom, don’t talk about it; I can’t!” Cis al¬ 
most sobbed. “You don’t know how wonderful it 
is!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


ENTANGLED THREADS 

VS7HEN Tom put the key of Nan’s front door 
* * into the keyhole and swung the door open 
for Cis to precede him into the house, she darted 
forward and began swiftly to mount the stairs. 

“Oh, say, Cis, hold on!” Tom remonstrated. 
“What am I to tell Nan?” 

“Anything you like, but beg her to give me a 
little time to myself to straighten out my thoughts. 
I’m—I suppose I’m tired, Tom,” Cis paused to say, 
then continued upstairs, not answering as Nan 
called from the dining room: 

“Cis, oh, Cis! Come in here a minute! I’ve just 
finished the baby’s new coat and pressed it. Come, 
see it!” 

Tom joined Nan, flushed and happy over the 
ironing board, with baby Matt kicking and cooing 
in the clothes basket, liking the flavor of its edge, 
over which he had fallen and was chewing it. 

“Say, Nan, what do you think?” asked Tom mys¬ 
teriously. “Talk about melodramas and adventure 
stories! Life can give the best author cards and 
spades and beat him out on plots! Rodney Moore’s 
wife was sitting on a park bench, committing sui¬ 
cide, all by herself, when along came Cis and your 
brother. Cis saw the bottle, ran like a Marathon 

844 


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345 


victor, jumped at her, knocked the bottle to smith¬ 
ereens, and then we took the lady to the Good Shep¬ 
herd! She’s a wreck in every way a woman can 
wreck herself. How’s that? Rodney Moore’s ex- 
wife!” 

Nan had dropped into a chair, her iron in her 
lap, and was staring at Tom with a horrified face. 

“Tom, it can’t be!” she gasped. “That woman 
doesn’t live here.” 

“Don’t know as to that, but she was certainly go¬ 
ing to die here,” insisted Tom. 

“What do you suppose it means? If she had 
taken the stuff that chap would have been free; not 
divorced, free . And Cis could have married him, 
if she pleased. Yet it was Cis hit the woman’s arm 
and saved her! What about it? What does it 
mean?” 

“It must mean that the poor wretch is going to 
have a chance to repent and die decently some day,” 
said pious little Nan. “But Rodney Moore’s wife! 
And Cis saved her! What a story! Why, Tom, it 
makes me shake! Oh, I must go to Cis! I’ll take 
the baby up to her. He’ll comfort her.” 

“No, no! Cis told me to ask you to let her alone 
awhile, till she pulls herself together,” Tom said. 
“Nan, the woman looked about all in. If she dies 
will Cis—?” 

“I don't know, I can’t tell,” cried Nan. “I hope 
not. Yet I see it would do everything for that man. 
It may be the way he'll come right. We never can 
see ahead of the day. But, Tommy dear, don’t 
mind too much. I’m quite sure, whether it is Rod- 


346 


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ney Moore again or not, that it will never be you. 
I’m sorry, buddy, but that is true. 

“No need of your saying so,” growled Tom. “Cis 
said it herself, so plain that it doesn’t need foot¬ 
notes for me to get it. All the same—” Tom 
stopped, turning away. 

“Yes, I say so, too! All the same I’d hate it to 
be Rodney Moore. But maybe it is Cis’s work to 
save his soul,” said Nan, picking up her son, find¬ 
ing him an effectual restorative. 

“Oh, his soul!” exclaimed Tom, and his tone 
sounded like an anathema. “I call it going pretty 
far to make a nice girl marry a man to save his 
soul!” 

“We ought to be willing to die to save a soul,” 
Nan reminded him. 

“Tm perfectly willing that lots of people should 
die to save a soul, but I ain’t willing one girl should 
marry to save one, not when the girl is Cis,” said 
Tom stalking off in disgust the stronger that he had 
been badly shaken in nerves. 

Up in her room Cis knelt before the window, 
staring out into the top of a spruce tree outside 
Nan’s little house. It was a long time before she 
could think coherently. The horror of the suicide 
so nearly accomplished; the almost equal horror of 
the woman’s degradation; the unmistakable stamp 
upon her of vice, upon her who was Rodney’s wife, 
yet who was not in any true sense his wife, nor 
could be the wife of any honest man, filled Cicely 
with shuddering confusion. It was as if she had a 
vision of what it meant when one said: “A lost 



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347 


soul.” Pity for Rodney overwhelmed her, yet, un¬ 
justly or justly, Cis felt as though he were stained by 
the vileness of this bone of his bone, flesh of his 
flesh. ' 4 And they two shall be as one flesh.” The 
words echoed within her mind, empty of connected 
thoughts, tense with fragments of thoughts which at 
once confused and tortured her poignantly. 

After a time Cis began to realize fully what had 
befallen her. She had parted from Rod because 
this woman lived. She had chanced upon her at 
barely the right time to secure her continuing to 
live; she had saved her from suicide, kept her alive 
to shackle Rodney, according to the law which had 
bound them together, but had given her another 
chance for Eternal Life. Now she lay within the 
spotless physical and spiritual purity of the House 
of the Good Shepherd. It was Cicely Adair, who 
had been so sore beset with temptation to marry 
this woman’s husband, who had been allowed to 
lead her inside the Good Shepherd’s field where she 
might, if she would, become that sheep which He 
bore upon His shoulders into safety. 

Cicely’s bright head bowed on the window sill; 
her breath came short; her cheeks grew wet with 
tears such as she had never before shed, as the 
realization came to her that this was her super- 
abounding reward. Because she had renounced 
Rodney for God’s sake, He was making her as the 
little crook which He laid around the neck of Rod¬ 
ney’s errant wife, compelling her to turn and re¬ 
turn. 

Cis rose up at last when Nan, unable to leave her 


348 


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to herself longer, came softly knocking at her door, 
and, with a loving kiss, laid the baby in Cicely’s 
arms, offering her thus the best clue that she knew 
to the mysteries of life, the sweetest panacea lor 
its ills. And as she did so, Nan, with a sudden 
sinking of heart, was sure that Cis would marry 
Rodney; that his wife would die and she would 
marry him, because she had known what it was to 
worship at the shrine of this baby. 

Cis had little to say to Nan of the tremen¬ 
dous experience of that day; what was there to 
say? It was far too great for comment, and of 
the possible import of it, its strange connection 
with her recent past, Cis had no desire to talk 
to Nan. She did go with it to Jeanette Lucas, 
whose understanding was perfect, but to her Cis 
found herself unequal to say much. She wrote 
to Father Morley, and received from him a long let¬ 
ter that formulated and expressed for Cis all that 
she had been trying to correlate in herself. How¬ 
ever, it was in her daily visits to the House of the 
Good Shepherd that Cis received the best fruit of 
these experiences. 

Every day Cis made time to go to see Myrtle 
Moore, and every day she sat for a while with the 
white robed nun whom they called Sister Bona- 
venture, properly so called her, Cis thought, for her 
coming was always good for her. 

She was wise with a wisdom that must have been 
the direct reception of that gift from the Holy 
Ghost, for she 4 Jiad entered religion,” she told Cis, 
at twenty-two. 


THE CABLE 


349 


She had spent but one year at home after her 
graduation from a convent school, so that she had 
encountered nothing of the world’s wickedness and 
weakness, yet she seemed to have plumbed the 
depths of the science of souls; her talk was illum¬ 
inative and tonic to Cis. 

“Will she die, Sister?” Cis asked, speaking of 
their patient. 

“Surely; we all shall,” smiled the nun. “But 
yes; I think Myrtle will not live long. You see, 
she has used up all her capital of strength, burned 
it like a fuel that yields cold, not heat. I think she 
will not last long.” 

“And will she die well—sorry, you know?” Cis 
hesitated; she found it hard to talk of Rodney’s 
wife’s state, even to Sister Bonaventure. 

“My dear,” said Sister Bonaventure with her 
smile, which Cis found at once illuminative and 
baffling, “as to that we can only pray and hope; 
pray that she may have the grace she so sorely 
needs; hope that when she receives the sacraments 
they may have the soil to work on in which they al¬ 
ways are fruitful. The poor things who die in our 
infirmary rarely refuse the last offices, and we try 
to make them fit to receive them; after that—” 
Sister Bonaventure waved her hands expressing the 
Infinite Mercy, and the incomprehensibility of 
human minds. “I think they are probably sorry, 
and God is anxious to go half-way to meet a part¬ 
ing soul. Habit dulls us all; perhaps God has to 
come farther toward all of us than we think He 
does, even to the best of us.” 


350 


THE CABLE 


“What a miracle to be where Myrtle Moore was, 
yet to die with you Sisters praying around her!” 
cried Cis, tears in her eyes. 

“What a miracle it is to die anywhere, yet with 
immortality and infinity around us!” cried Sister 
Bonaventure. “Cicely, we are so surrounded with 
miracles, so accustomed to handling them, that we 
are obtuse! Now, my dear, this woman’s former 
husband, who is still her husband, for they were 
married by a priest, and their divorce does not 
touch the fact—what about him? He should be 
sent for, if she grows as much worse within a week 
as our doctor and our Sister Infirmarian expects 
her to. She does not know where he is, and we are 
completely at sea as to how to look for him. Could 
you make a suggestion?” 

“Did you know. Sister, that I was going to marry 
him, not knowing that he had ever been married? 
And that he would not deceive me, so, at the last 
minute—our home was preparing—he told me that 
he was divorced?” cried Cis. 

“Was that the way of it?” asked Sister Bona¬ 
venture serenely. “No, I did not know anything 
whatever, but I surmised that there was something 
to know, that your interest in the patient was not 
fully explained by your rescue of her. Have you 
his address, my dear?” 

“He can always be reached through his firm, the 
main house, in Chicago,” replied Cis. “I have that 
address; yes, Sister. Shall I give it to you?” 

She wondered at the matter-of-course way in 
which the nun received her brief statement that 



THE CABLE 


351 


she had almost, though innocently, married a man 
already married. She had not dealt enough with 
the Religious of her faith to know that they rarely 
seem to be surprised by human vagaries, and still 
more rarely betray a shock. 

“No, on the whole, I think it were better that you 
should write,’’ said Sister Bonaventure. “Mr. 
Moore might not come if we wrote him. He has 
divorced the woman, and it is not likely that he 
feels tolerant of her sins against him. If you write 
to him, telling him how you saved her from death 
by her own hand, and that he must come at once to 
see her, bid her farewell, and forgive her, that she 
may die in peace, hoping for a higher forgiveness, 
I think that he may come on. Especially that you 
have a claim upon him for the wrong that he so 
nearly did you.” 

“Oh, Sister, you don’t, you can’t ask me to write 
to him!” cried Cis. “How can I write him? And 
what may he not think? That I want to see him, 
even that I may—” 

“You will write to him as a disembodied spirit 
would write; you can easily show him your motive. 
You really cannot refuse to write. The poor woman 
wants to see him, to receive his pardon; she cannot 
die in peace without it. I must tell you that we did 
write to him, to Beaconhite. We know that the let¬ 
ter was forwarded, for otherwise it was to have been 
returned in three days. He has not replied in any 
way. You must write, Cicely; you must still fur¬ 
ther help Myrtle to die. As to the man’s misin¬ 
terpreting you, that will not outlast his coming, and 


352 


THE GABLE 


cannot harm you. If I did not know that you were 
wholly free from personal desire in the matter, I 
would not let you write. I have watched you, talk¬ 
ing with you, and I understand you. As it is, I ask 
you to write—at once.” 

“I will!” cried Cis, swayed to Sister Bonaven- 
ture’s will by something in her eyes. 

“Oh, Sister Bonaventure, if you know me—and 
you do!—could I be one of you here? Or a nun 
anywhere? Am I fit to be? It is so lofty, so peace¬ 
ful, so blessed!” 

44 You are entirely fit, my child, but not in the 
least fitted,” said the nun, with the smile that drew 
hearts to her. 44 It is not that the best come here, 
but the called come. The life is all that you say it 

is, but peace is denied to no one who follows after 

it. You do not belong with us, dear Cicely; not in 
any Community, but in a home whence you will 
overflow to bring happiness and help into other 
lives.” 

44 As though you nuns didn’t!” sighed Cis, rising 
to go. 

44 Ah, yes, I know. Little mirrors reflect wher¬ 
ever they are hung! Good-bye, my dear. Write 
that letter to-night and dispatch it,” said Sister 
Bonaventure. 

Cis wrote when she got back to her room at 
Nan’s. She did not let herself pause for an instant 
to remember that she was writing to Rodney— 
again! 

“Dear Rodney;” she wrote. “Myrtle Moore, 
your wife, is here, in this city. I came upon her in 




THE CABLE 


353 


the park just as she was putting to her lips the 
deadly poison which was to kill her. I knocked the 
bottle from her hand. I took her to the House of 
the Good Shepherd. She is seriously ill there; dy¬ 
ing. She cannot die without begging your forgive¬ 
ness. Come on at once and give it to her. We shall 
all need mercy one day, as we have all done wrong. 
Come at once. Remember that Myrtle is still your 
wife. Think of her as she was when you first knew 
her; she is now a wreck, suffering, wretched, dying. 
Do not lose a day. You must see in this the Hand 
of God: that she had wandered here; that I came 
back here; that it was I who saved her from suicide 
to die with the sacraments, hope and sorrow in her 
miserable heart. If there is anything that I could 
add to urge you to come, I would add it, but what 
more is there? A woman whom you once loved, an 
outcast, broken-down, dying, begging your forgive¬ 
ness! It is miserably sad, but still more pitiable; 
you are kind, Rodney; you will not say no. And 
God let me save her from a dreadful end, me, 
Cicely Adair.” 

Cis read her letter several times, then she took it 
to Jeanette Lucas to read. 

“I can’t tell whether it is right or wrong,” Cis 
said imploringly. 

“I don’t think you could better it, dear. What 
can you do except lay before him the facts? He 
cannot refuse such a request as this, and from you! 
How strange it all is! Cis, when he comes—what?” 
Jeanette waited for Cis’s answer. 

It came at last. 


354 


THE CABLE 


“Yes, what?” Cis echoed. “I don’t want to see 
him. Will you hide me, Jeanette?” 

“But you know when this poor Myrtle is dead—” 
Jeanette stopped. 

“No, no, no!” cried Cis. “What a curiously 
tangled web! I wonder why?” 

“It is not tangled,” Jeanette reminded her. “It 
looks so to us; I’m sure the tangle is part of the pat¬ 
tern.” 

Three days must pass before Rodney could reply 
to Cicely’s letter, and that would be making the 
best time possible for a letter to travel in each direc¬ 
tion. It would be longer, if he were coming; time 
must be allowed, in either case, for Cicely’s letter to 
be forwarded to him. They were hard days to live 
through; dread, expectation, perhaps fear is not too 
strong a word, were in the air that Cis breathed; 
she spent the hours in feverish nervousness. And 
Myrtle was rapidly growing worse. 

On the fourth day Rodney came. It was eve¬ 
ning, and Cis was sitting with Nan under the light 
of her reading lamp, in her sitting room, when they 
heard Joe open the front door and tell someone to 
“walk right in.” 

Before they had time to be startled by the reali¬ 
zation that the step was not Tom’s, whom they had 
expected to see, Rodney Moore stood in the door¬ 
way. 

Nan had seen him but once; however, she in¬ 
stantly recognized him and sprang up with an in¬ 
articulate sound that was almost a shocked cry. Cis 


THE CABLE 


355 


sat still, staring up at him, her work fallen into her 
lap. 

Rodney had changed; he looked older, worn, 
hard. Cis instantly felt great pity for him, but it 
was mingled with amazement that she had so lately 
found him all that was attractive in man. Some¬ 
thing stood between them that was not the dying 
Myrtle. Cis had learned, had absorbed other 
standards of excellence than Rodney’s since she 
had parted from him; they asserted themselves 
without her volition, her consciousness of their 
presence. 

“Cis!” said Rodney hoarsely, and Cis became 
aware that she had not spoken. 

“Yes, Rodney. I am thankful that you have 
come,” Cis said. 

She arose, went forward and gave Rodney an icy 
hand. 

“I will telephone the Sisters and ask when you 
are to go to see Myrtle. She has sunk fast for two 
days; I found her quite low when I went there this 
afternoon, but they think that she is fighting to 
hold herself alive till you get here. Perhaps you 
must go there to-night.” Cis turned toward the 
telephone in the corner. 

“For heaven’s sake, Cis, is this all that you have 
to say to me after—” Rodney’s angry grief stopped 
his utterance. 

“That I am thankful that you have come? That 
I will help you at once to accomplish what you 
came for? What else is there to say, Rodney?” Cis 


356 


THE CABLE 


asked quietly, and took down the telephone re¬ 
ceiver. 

“Have I no claim? Am I no more than an un¬ 
dertaker, called in to lay out that miserable 
woman?” Rodney almost shouted. 

Cis turned toward him and raised her hand. 

“I am waiting for my connection; please be 
quiet,” she said. “You have a claim upon my pity 
and help; I am giving you both.” 

Rodney stared at her as she turned back to the 
instrument and talked for a short time to someone 
on the other end of the wire. Cis hung up, and 
came back to the middle of the room, leaning her 
hand on the table as if she were tired. 

“You are to go to the Good Shepherd to-night,” 
she said. ut The Sister Infirmarian says that you 
have not come too soon. If Nan will give you sup¬ 
per we will start immediately after you have eaten. 
I will take you there, unless you prefer to go alone.” 

“I can’t go alone; I’m afraid,” Rodney groaned. 

Gentle Nan went over to him as she heard his 
boyish cry. She began to hope that Cicely would 
comfort him, as she alone could do, and lead him 
back to God, which seemed to her preeminently 
Cicely’s grace. 

“I don’t want any supper, but have you coffee?” 
Rodney asked, and Nan hurried away to make it, 
followed by Cis, who had no mind to linger with 
Rodney alone. 

Joe called a taxi; the coffee was quickly made on 
the gas range, and drunk. Cis found herself whirl- 


THE CABLE 


357 


ing as in a dream through the streets, beside Rod¬ 
ney. 

He groped for her hand, but Cis withheld it. 

“There is no you nor I, Rodney,” she said 
sternly. “Myrtle is dying. Pray that you may be 
able to help her out of the world which she has 
tragically spoiled for herself, for you, and for who 
can say how many others? Pray hard that you and 
she, both, may be allowed to atone.” 

“Do you think that I am partly responsible for 
her wickedness?” Rodney demanded fiercely. 

“I don’t know, oh, I don't know; X hope not,” 
said Cis wearily. “Fm beginning to see that we 
are almost always sharer in a wrong that is within 
our own radius. We are so slow to see, so indif¬ 
ferent to save.” 

The taxi stopped at the door of the House of the 
Good Shepherd, which opened at once to admit Cis 
and Rodney. 

“Yes, very low,” the Sister answered Cicely’s 
question. “They say she will die to-night. She has 
made her confession, and received the last rites; 
she is conscious and lies watching the door for her 
husband to come.” 

Rodney felt the word like a cord around him. 
None of these Catholics, whom he had tried to 
leave behind him, but who were again interwoven 
into his life, heeded the decree of divorce which 
annulled for him his title of husband. How un¬ 
bending, everlasting, certain, were the ways of 
Rome even in all her least, most distant avenues! 

“Oh, Rod!” Myrtle breathed his name as he en- 


358 


THE CABLE 


tered. “Now I’ll die. Maybe it’s true God will 
forgive me, if you can. You’re harder than God. 
I’m sorry, honest. Forgive me, Roddie?” 

Rodney looked down on her; at the fluttering 
hand feebly extended toward him; at the face which 
he had known young and pretty, now wasted, con¬ 
sumed by Myrtle’s life, the life now panting toward 
its final breath. 

A great pity came upon him. There, on the 
other side of the bed, knelt Cis, the stainless girl 
whom he loved, her face white and tear-wet, sweet 
and grave with pity, and pain, and fear. 

Who was he to condemn, to refuse mercy? Did 
he not need it, too? Had his life been so far be¬ 
yond reproach? Cis, kneeling there, thought that 
he was worse than Myrtle, for she had sinned, but 
was absolved. She had broken God’s laws, but he 
had turned his back on God coldly, deliberately. 
And he had not confessed himself a sinner. He 
was not a hard-hearted man, and the awfulness of 
what lay there before him, what awaited Myrtle, 
now hoping for Rodney’s pardon, so soon to stand 
before God for His sentence, melted him, broke 
down his anger against his wife. 

Rodney knelt beside the bed, and took the flut¬ 
tering hand, folding its feeble fingers within his 
own. 

“It’s all right, Myrtie; don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll 
forgive everything, and Em sorry if I ever drove 
you an inch on your road. It’s all right, poor girl. 
Go to sleep and take your rest.” 

“Well, God bless you, Rod!” 


sighed Myrtle. 


THE CABLE 


359 


“I’m going to sleep; pray I’ll rest.” Beside that bed 
for three hours Cis, Myrtle’s divorced husband, 
who at last realized that there was no divorce but 
the one Myrtle, slipping away, was giving him, and 
a Sister recited the prayers for a parting soul. At 
the first hour of the morning the soul quietly, with 
a few deep drawn breaths, parted. 

Rodney went back to Nan’s in the taxi with Cis. 
They did not speak during the drive. But as Rod¬ 
ney opened the door for Cis with her pass key, he 
put out his hand and Cis laid hers in it without a 
word. 

_ e 

“I’m going to the hotel. To-morrow I’ll attend 
to things, then—May I see you, Cis?” Rodney 
asked. 

“Yes. I’ll see you, Rodney-—to say good-bye,” 
Cis answered. 

“I’ve no right to complain of that,” Rodney said 
humbly. “You’re a good girl, Cis. Whatever had 
been, you would have been too good for me. I’m 
thankful to you, Cis, for to-night.” 

“I’m thankful to God. Good night, Rodney,” 

said Cis. 


/ 


CHAPTER XXIII 
THE NEXT STEP 

TNURING the remnant of that night left for sleep 
Cis slept deeply, too tired in mind and body 
to be wakeful. 

Her hours at the telephone exchange were elas¬ 
tic ; she had undertaken the organization work only 
on a provisory basis, unwillingly, with the under¬ 
standing that it might continue in her hands but a 
short time. She called up her own department in 
the morning and said that she would not go down 
until after lunch. She knew that Rodney would 
come to see her, probably in the forenoon. She 
knew that she must not refuse to see him. He had 
done right because she had asked it of him; the 
least that she could do was to repay that debt by 
bidding him good-bye, this time, she was sure, for 
all the rest of her life. She dreaded the interview, 
yet dreaded it less than she had expected to. Her 
experience with Rodney had been marked by ex¬ 
tremes of emotion, even up to the previous night 
when, by a strange combination of circumstances, 
she and he had watched his wife die while they 
responded to the prayers for mercy upon her. Now 
Cis stood upon the plane of quiet. There remained 
but to drop the curtain upon this drama in her life, 
with a Godspeed for poor Rodney. 

360 


THE CABLE 


361 


Little Nan went about with an awe-struck, fright¬ 
ened face as the morning hours passed and Cis 
awaited Rodney. Nothing dramatic had ever come 
within the sweet little woman’s orbit; she did not 
know how to bear herself as a sort of fringe upon 
Cicely’s tragic cloak. 

“I’ll stay in the room, or keep away, just as you 
say, Cis—I mean when he comes,” Nan said. “I 
don’t know what is done in these cases.” 

Cis laughed; being Cis she would always laugh at 
anything funny. 

4 T don’t believe they set down rules for ‘these 
cases’ in books of etiquette, Nan! But I wouldn’t 
like to give Rodney an audience; you and I are an¬ 
other matter,” she said. 

‘‘Thank goodness!” cried Nan fervently. “I’d 
be so scared I’d probably crawl under the sofa!” 

“Which would do no one else any good, and muss 
up your hair dreadfully,” Cis suggested. 

When the bell rang it was nearly noon. Nan 
fled to open the door, and then to escape. Cis had 
been holding the sleepy baby, and when Rodney 
entered she had risen to meet him, little Matt held 
in her arm, which could not quite support his white 
kid-shod feet. His rosy face was pressed against 
Cis’s breast; his half-open eyes regarded the 
stranger with a languid interest that suggested a 
verdict on him, rendered after a nap had been com¬ 
pleted. 

The doorway framed this sweet picture of poign¬ 
ant suggestions; Rodney halted and stood gazing 
at it motionless, silent, his face working with pain. 


362 


THE CABLE 


He came forward and put out his hand. Cicely laid 
hers in it, then withdrew it and turned to resume 
her chair, wondering if Nan would fetch away the 
baby. 

“Take that more comfortable seat, Rodney,” she 
said. “This is my godson; we are on the best of 
terms.” 

“I am going away on the train that leaves here 
for Chicago at eight minutes to two,” Rodney said, 
ignoring all extrinsic subjects. “Myrtle’s people 
replied to a telegram from me that she might be 
buried in their family lot; they live about fifteen 
miles outside Chicago. The Sisters sent them word 
that Myrtle was in their hands, dying; they did not 
reply. Neither did I reply to a letter from the 
Sisters. You made me come on. Queer, isn’t it, 
that I, who am no relation to her, and you who 
never knew her, are the only ones to see Myrtle out 
off the earth, and decently put into it?” Rodney 
spoke with a visible effort. 

“You are related to her; you two were made one 
flesh,” said Cis. 

“Well, Cis, I’m going to own up! The Church 
is right. I’ve been feeling that. Myrtle separated 
herself from me by a chasm that no honorable man 
would cross; that’s all so. But the state did not 
divorce me from her; it couldn’t. If marriage 
asserts itself, in spite of that impassable chasm of 
disgrace and infamy, as it surely does, then it’s be¬ 
yond the reach of the state. You were right; I was 
wrong. If we had been married last night, kneel¬ 
ing beside Myrtle, neither of us could have borne 


THE CABLE 


363 


it. Curious, isn’t it? But you were right. Is it 
any satisfaction to you to have me acknowledge it? 
I hope it is. I was furiously, bitterly angry with 
you, Cis, but you were right. I’m able to see now 
that it cost you high to choose as you did.” 

“It hurt, Rodney,” said Cis simply. “I don’t sup¬ 
pose I should say now that it cost me high; I realize 
that I made a tremendous purchase at a low rate. 
I’ve been thinking how strange it is: You are tak¬ 
ing Myrtle’s body to Chicago, then to her own 
people!” 

“On that eight minutes to two,” Rodney corrobo¬ 
rated her. 

“Yes. How strange it is that you have come to 
say good-bye to me, and are going away with Myrtle, 
after all,” Cis completed her thought. 

“But, Cis, it is not reunited to her,” Rodney pro¬ 
tested. “It is recognition that the divorce did not 
set me free to marry you, but there was far more 
than any decree separating me from Myrtle. And 
therefore there is no reason for conventionality, no 
reason for assuming that my wife has just died, and 
that I am on my way to bury her. I am not; I am 
seeing her looked after and I grant you I could not 
marry again on my divorce, yet there’s no wife of 
mine newly dead, either. Cis, now I am free. Now 
the Church puts no barrier between us. You can 
be as Catholic as you will, and yet marry me. 
There’s nothing to wait for; we’ve spent a long pro¬ 
bation. When, Cis?” 

“Never, Rodney,” said Cis quietly. “I hoped you 
understood that.” 


364 


THE CABLE 


“I understood that you wanted me to understand 
it when you told me you’d see me to say good-bye. 
You couldn’t have expected me to go off on a hint! 
Why won’t you marry me, Cis? You have changed 
enormously, but I know you’re not fickle, not easily 
moved, either way. You still love me?” Rodney 
pleaded. 

“No, Rodney, I don’t,” Cis said. “It amazes me 
to find that you stir memories of feeling, but no 
feeling. Don’t you think, perhaps, there is a reac¬ 
tion from intense pain that produces in the mind 
something like the immunity that a violent sickness 
produces in the physical system? I was dashed to 
pieces, and the reassembled person has lost the 
vibration to your personality.” 

“Merciful powers! Cis!” cried Rodney, hon¬ 
estly disgusted. “You talking philosophy, or psy¬ 
chology, or some other rotten, cold-blooded analy¬ 
sis! You, glowing, red-haired, my Holly? That 
high-browed crowd you’ve gone in with at Beacon- 
hite have cold packed you!” 

Cis smiled faintly. “I’m no colder than I ever 

99 

was— 

“Except to me!” Rodney interrupted her. “Don’t 
tell me that I don’t remember—” 

“Except to you,” Cis interrupted in her turn, her 
color heightened. “I have grown up, and we are no 
longer possible chums. It happens often enough 
that people grow apart, even when they’re married. 
When it has happened to two people who are free, 
there can be, there should be, no talk of marriage 


THE CABLE 


365 


between them. We must say good-bye, Rodney, as 
you came to say it.” 

“As you told me to come to say it; I didn’t mean 
to say it,’ Rodney pulled on a chain from inside his 
breast, and held up to Cis her ruby holly ring. “I 
wear it, but take it back, Cis!” he begged. 

“Oh, the poor, lovely ring!” Cis cried. “I will 
never take it back. Oh, Rodney, we had not planned 
for the true Christmas when I wore that! Give the 
ruby to be set in a chalice, or sell it, and send the 
money to take care of some helpless baby who may 
never know that Our Lord was a baby! Let it make 
a trifling reparation for us both.” 

Rodney stared, but this suggestion seemed to con¬ 
vince him that between him and Cis stretched un¬ 
bridgeable distances. 

“Well, you have got it bad!” he said slowly, not 
so much irreverently as in a puzzled way, express¬ 
ing himself in the vernacular of his custom. 

“Don’t you think it’s natural to want to pay 
back?” Cis suggested. “If the Church were not 
true, she could not be so beautiful, and you do ‘have 
it bad,’ as you say, when you love anything that is 
wholly true and profoundly beautiful. Rodney, 
truly you don’t begin to know! I wish you would 
*—at least begin to know! Did you ever read about 
those poor animals which have been shut down in 
mines, how they act when they come up into the 
sunshine, into green fields again? Quite mad with 
the warmth, and brightness, and pasturage? I’m 
like that. I went along, didn’t know what I was 
missing, but now I know what I have! Will you 


366 


THE GABLE 


promise me, Rodney, solemnly promise me, now, 
to-day when we part, that you will do your best to 
learn what your birthright is which you threw 

away ?” 

Rodney Moore looked long and mutely at Cis, 
frowning, biting his lip; she had silenced his pleas 
for his personal desires. She waited for his an¬ 
swer. 

At last it came. 

“Yes,” Rodney said. “I will look into it thor¬ 
oughly. It must be a big thing to do what it did 
last night. And to you—though that’s another 
story. It hit me when you would not marry me, 
stuck to the Church, though you didn’t seem to 
care much about her. I know a chap who is a 
Dominican in Chicago; he and I were confirmed to¬ 
gether. I’ll hunt him up. It’s a promise.” 

“Then God bless you, Rodney, and I’ll pray for 
you hard. It’s good-bye, now, isn’t it? I heard the 
Angelus from our church faintly ever so long ago,” 
6aid Cis, rising. 

Rodney pulled out his watch. 

“I’ll say it was long ago!” he cried. “I’ll have to 
eat on the train. But it won’t take me long to con¬ 
nect with my bag at the hotel. Everything else is 
done. Cis, good-bye. Oh, Cis, good-bye! Not for 
always? Let me come again!” 

“Better not, Rodney. I’m not going to stay here, 
though; not long. I think this time it is for always, 
yet we may meet again; there should be many days 
before we are old. Truly God bless you, Rodney,” 
said Cis, holding out her hand. 


THE CABLE 


367 


Their hands met over the sleeping baby; he 
seemed like a figure of their complete separation, 
filling the place of the child who would never be. 

“Kiss me. Holly,” Rodney whispered. 

“Our hands hold all that we give,” Cicely an* 
swered, and once more he bowed to her will. 

“I shall remember you looking like a madonna. 
Good-bye, good-bye, ah, Cis, good-bye!” Rodney 
lifted to his cheek the hand he held, then laid it 
upon the child’s breast, beside its mate. 

Cis stood motionless after the front door closed, 
till Nan came creeping into the room and little Matt 
stirred with a complaining cry. 

Rodney had gone, gone with Myrtle, dead, to 
bury her; deeper still to bury his hope and love of 
Cicely. Nothing was left of Rodney Moore except 
his promise to her. But that promise filled Cis with 
exaltation. 

The next morning Cis made it on her way to her 
office to go to see Jeanette Lucas, though it was a 
detour that took her in the opposite direction for 
several blocks. 

“Cis, I wanted to see you; did you sense it?” 
Jeanette cried as she came in. “I’ve something 
wonderful, marvellous to tell you. You remember 

Paul Ralph Randolph?” 

“Why, of course I do,” said Cis. “Didn’t he 
tour New England with Mr. Lancaster last summer, 
keeping with Miss Braithwaite’s car? I rode with 
him lots of times, and had fine talks. He’s the con- 


368 


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vert minister who has been so fine about it; I mean 
sacrifices and all that.” 

“Surely! Cis, he’s a confessor of the faith! He’s 
almost a martyr for it! He’s perfectly glorious!” 
cried Jeanette. 

“You’ve heard all that; everybody has, of course. 
You don’t know him, do you?” Cis asked. 

“Oh, Cicely Adair! He told me that he had 
talked to you of me!” Jeanette looked aggrieved. “I 
met him in England; he crossed with us coming 
home. He was received in England, because it was 
easier. His father and mother behaved violently 
about his coming over to the Church, when he an¬ 
nounced that he intended to come, so he went 
across, and he was received by the Benedictines 
over there. Don’t you remember? I must have 
spoken of it, and he himself told you that he knew 
me! What a girl! Did you remember everything 
he told you of Mr. Lancaster? Paul says—” 

“Hallo! Who says?” cried Cis. 

“Yes, that’s my news!” Jeanette triumphed over 
her. “Paul says, Paul, whom I’m going to marry! 
Paul Ralph Randolph, the confessor, and almost 
martyr!” 

“Martyr nothing!” Cis relapsed under the shock 
into her earlier habits of speech. 

“He’s no martyr if he marries you, Jeanette 
Lucas! You’re too lovely to marry any mere man. 
I always did think you were superfinely fine! But 
this is great news, my dearest, and nobody is 
gladder than red-haired Cis!” 

“Nobody is nicer than red-haired Cis!” retorted 


THE CABLE 


369 


Jeanette. “I was afraid you’d be a little shocked, 
because you knew I was engaged before. But, Cis, 
though it hurt me dreadfully when you let me dis¬ 
cover Herbert Dale’s character, and I was wretched 
after it, it was the sickness of disenchantment; the 
shock cured me of all love for him. I half hoped 
I might be a nun; I spoke of it to you once, but it 
isn’t my place. When Paul asked me to marry him 
—three days ago; he wrote me—I knew how I loved 
him; I hadn’t realized it before. Oh, my dear, I’m 
so happy and so humbled!” 

“I don’t mind how happy you are, but not 
humbled,” Cis protested, kissing her over and over 
again. 

“And I want you happy, splendid Cicely,” Jean¬ 
ette murmured. 

“Oh, as to that, I’m sure to be; it’s the tempera¬ 
ment of my hair,” said Cis, turning away slightly. 
“But I’d like to be useful, fill a place, find the right 
place to fill. Sister Bonaventure says no habit for 
poor Cicely! I wonder what I’m meant for; noth¬ 
ing in particular, probably. Reliable secretary, 
run a typewriter accurately, get under the skins of 
youngsters when they need entertaining! Well, it’s 
at least a harmless life.” 

There was a note in Cicely’s voice new to it. 
Jeanette instantly pounced upon her. “Lonely, 
Cis? Not perfectly happy? These past days made 
things harder? They’ve been cruelly hard in them¬ 
selves, I’m sure of that!” 

Cis swung around to face her. 

“It’s not that I still want Rod; don’t think that!” 



370 


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she cried. “I knew I didn’t, but I know it better 
now. These days were hard, but they were a com¬ 
fort, too. I’m not lonely, not exactly; perhaps, a 
little. I don’t know what I want. I miss Miss 
Braithwaite, my life with her. Perfectly happy? 
I’m twenty-three; the ‘first fine careless rapture’ 
is over then, I suppose. I want a place to fill; I 
want a work to do that will take every bit of me to 
do it.” 

Cis quoting Browning? Cis half pensive, unsat¬ 
isfied? Jeanette wondered. 

“Poor Cicely! I suspect if we put a dynamo to 
grinding coffee it would find the grains small and 
the dust they made too trivial!” Jeanette said. “But 
you take my engagement coolly! Aren’t you 
amazed?” 

“I’m wholly amazed and surprised, and I take it 
less coolly than you think,” declared Cis. “It has 
rather bowled me over. I suppose I dread to have 
you married. Where shall you live, Jeanette, 
dear?” 

“In Beaconhite. Paul is going into literary work 
there; he says I shall help him. And he is going 
to teach Greek and Latin in that big boys’ school on 
the outskirts of the city—Graycliff Hall—and he’ll 
probably lecture. It will be Beaconhite,” Jeanette 
answered. 

Cis’s face had brightened as she listened. 

“I know I’m going back there, somehow,” she de¬ 
clared. “That’s good news that you’ll be within 
reach. I’m hungry for Beaconhite.” 

“Uncle Wilmer is ready for you at any moment, 


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371 


whoever he has as his secretary,” Jeanette assured 
her. “He told me that he would pension his sec¬ 
retary, if he must, and would have you back any 
day you’d come. He will be received into the 
Church at Pentecost, Cis; Father Morley will re¬ 
ceive him, as he did father, and father will make a 
point of being here in time for the ceremony.” 

“Was there a secret about your father’s going 
away; ought I ask?” hinted Cis. 

“He was seriously ill. We told no one, lest 
mother hear of it; things have such a way of leak¬ 
ing, unexplainably! He was supposed to be travel¬ 
ling on matters connected with important affairs 
of business. He has been in a sanitarium. He is 
cured, thank God! Even now don’t speak of this, 
Cis. Miss Gallatin knows, hardly anyone else. 
Hannah Gallatin is a great woman!” Jeanette 
ended with tears of gratitude and relief in her eyes. 

“I never see her, lately; I wish I might,” said 
Cis. “I believe she could set me up again with my 
old sensible way of taking things!” 

“She’s not here now. I’ll tell her you need her 
for a—what do they call it?—a pick-me-up?” Jean¬ 
ette laughed. 

That evening Tom came into Nan’s house as was 
his custom. Though Cis had bade him cease to hope 
for her love, and Nan had confirmed the hopeless¬ 
ness, yet as long as Cis was free, it was hard for 
Tom to give her up, and wholly impossible to stay 
away from her. 

“Well,” the boy began as he came in, “I saw 
something pretty decent to-night. A man came in 



372 


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on the 7:56 train; I was at the station. He was 
great, the kind everybody turns to look at; tall, 
well-dressed, about forty, maybe, and—I don’t 
know! Great; that’s about the word. You wanted 
to speak to him, and shake hands with him. He 
talked something like an Englishman, not quite—” 

“What did he look like?” cried Cis. 

“Why, I’ve been telling you, haven’t I?” Tom 
spoke in an aggrieved tone. “I don’t know the color 
of his eyes, or anything of that sort. Handsome, 
I’d say, but more sort of splendid. He had an¬ 
other man with him, nice chap, too. Well, sir, 
there was a raggedy old woman hanging around, 
trying to find out something about trains, or farm¬ 
ing, for all I know; nobody could make her out. 
She had a bag as big as a Noe’s ark, and a regular 
eruption of bundles! A fresh boy thought it was 
funny to hustle her, hit up against her, and she 
dropped the bundles, bag, whole shooting match, 
all over everything! The bag bulged queer clothes 
—it burst open—and the bundles opened up, or 
two did, and out of one there sort of flowed a lot 
of carrots, and out of the other a white kitten got 
away! Don’t ask me how she had it done up, for 
I’ll never tell you! Everybody howled laughing, 
but what do you think that man did?” 

“Helped her!” cried Cis, and she looked tri¬ 
umphant and excited. 

“Rather! Caught the kitten and stroked it quiet; 
the little thing took to him as if he’d been the 
mother cat! Gathered up carrots with the other 
hand, and, in the mean time, talked to the old dame 



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373 


in her own tongue—Italian—and put her wise to 
whatever she was trying to find out! I got in on 
bundling the clothes back into the bag, and the 
carrots into the bundle, and the kitten into a basket, 
which my knight of distressed dames bought at the 
fruit stand; he tied it down so strong that the kitten 
is sure to arrive wherever it’s going! And I’m bet¬ 
ting that most of the people around there felt good 
and ashamed of themselves! It isn’t much to tell, 
but somehow it was a lot to see. There wasn’t a 
person in that waiting room that didn’t think that 
man was the greatest ever; you could feel the way 
the thing grabbed ’em. I tell you the truth! Of 
course I was sorry for the old person, and sorry I’d 
laughed at her, and I did want to make good by 
helping her out, but I wanted more to be working 
with that man so that he’d speak to me! He did 
speak, too! And I leave it to you if a fellow like 
me often feels that way to a man, a perfect stranger, 
just happening to come off the train in the station?” 

“Magnetism,” murmured Joe. 

“There’s only one man in all the world like 
that!” cried Cis. 

Tom turned on her sharply. 

“Know him?” he demanded. 

“Of course I can’t be sure, but it is exactly like 
Mr. Anselm Lancaster, and it is like no one else in 
all the world!” Cis said, her eyes bright, her face 
flushed, her breath a little quickened. 

“He is the one whom everybody looks at; when 
he comes into a room you feel him as much as you 
see him. He can make anything trust him, kittens, 



374 


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carrots, old women, anything! He speaks Italian 
as well as English, and he speaks English like an 
Oxford Englishman. He would do precisely what 
you describe, be a knight errant as soon for a poor 
old immigrant as for a princess! It sounds like no 
one but Mr. Anselm Lancaster!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE BEACON 

PRECISELY because she wanted exceedingly to 
stay away from the girls and neglect the ar¬ 
rangement of their new rooms in the telephone 
building, Cis arose betimes the next morning and 
went out early. She could not rid herself of the 
conviction that the man whose chivalry had so im¬ 
pressed Tom the previous night was Anselm Lan¬ 
caster, and she wanted to stay in the house, hoping 
that, if it were he, he would come to look her up. 
It had been long, and seemed longer to Cis, since 
she had heard from Miss Braithwaite. Mr. Lan¬ 
caster had shown no remembrance of her existence 
for months; it was now close upon May day, and 
spring in the air increased Cis’s restless dissatisfac¬ 
tion, filling her with a homesickness which was 
farther reaching and deeper than homesickness for 
a definite place. 

She told herself that it was absurd to identify 
Tom’s hero on so slender a ground, and quite un¬ 
pardonable to mope around the house expecting 
Mr. Lancaster to call on her. “You never were 
silly when it was the time to be silly; don’t begin it 
now, Cis Adair,” she sternly told herself. 

So she went down to look after her girls’ organi¬ 
zation earlier than usual, in order to rebuke her 

375 


376 


THE CABLE 


own tendency to folly, but, like most of us, she com¬ 
promised with her weakness. 

“I’m not coming back to lunch, Nancy,” she 
casually told Nan. “I’ve looked up that bunch of 
little ragamuffin newsies I used to chum with before 
I went away. I could not find them all, but I found 
two or three, and they’ll find the rest—one, Tony, 
whom I liked a great deal, is dead, poor little chap; 
was run over by a motor truck, they tell me. I’ve 
been thinking I missed my chance to do more than 
amuse them and give them a little pleasure when I 
was here; I’m going to see if I can make amends. 
I told them I’d give them the price of their papers 
if they’d spend the afternoon with me, take a holi¬ 
day. They didn’t seem to object! I’m going to 
take them out to the picnic glen on a hike, and give 
them a good time—I hope! I went out there yes¬ 
terday and hid tin boxes, filled with candy, around 
in the rocks, and under the shrubbery, enough for 
each to have one; they’ll have to divide fairly if 
anybody finds more than one. And when they’ve 
worked down some of their spirits I’m going to tell 
them a story, and lead up to my point—missionary 
point, you know! Good plan?” 

“It’s a dear plan, Cis!” cried Nan. “What a Cis 
you are! I’d like to be good your way!” 

“Fiddlesticks! My way is to try to make up the 
least bit for not being half-way good, never once 
caring to give the little chaps a push in the right di¬ 
rection. You don’t have to pay up for lost chances. 
Nan,” cried Cis impatiently. “I could have done 
almost anything with those boys then. Well, that’s 




THE CABLE 


377 


I 


milk that is not only spilled, but soaked down into 
the ground; no use crying over it. If you need me, 
Nan, if the baby begins to talk, or has the croup, or 
anything like that, you’ll find me at the picnic 
glen.” 

Cis laughed, a little shame-facedly as she made it 
clear to Nan where not only she, but anyone else 
who happened to want her might find her. 

At half past one Cis, with a fringe on her gar¬ 
ment’s edge, of small boys, and a few larger ones, 
went briskly swinging out toward the pretty country 
which surrounded the little city. They were bound 
on a four mile walk; they would end it, at the pace 
they were taking it, in something over an hour and 
a quarter. Cis ordered her troop to sing, herself 
leading the dubious chorus, sung in as many varia¬ 
tions of key and tune as was possible to the num¬ 
ber singing. The words held most of the time in 
place; even little flat-faced Jimmy Devlin, who 
sang on one note, situated in the depth of his dia- 
praghm, kept valiantly to the time, so the tortured 
music held the feet to their task. 

The glen was really pretty. It was damp and 
fragrant with the spring moisture and odors; with 
the delicious earth newly released from frost, the 
little shoots, the new growths of bark; somewhere 
out of sight were violets, and on the rocks saxifrage, 
clustering tiny white stars on an erect stem. 

The boys’ delight was satisfying even to Cis, who 
passionately longed to put four hours and better of 
unadulterated joy into these meagre little lives. 
They went on a violent hunt for her hidden boxes 


378 


THE CABLE 


of candy, unearthed them, every one, and willingly 
gave each boy who had been slower than the rest 
the share which he had failed to discover. They 
played games, yelling like mad, till, at last, they 
were ready to drop down on the platform put up 
for dancing, upon which Cis insisted as a seat be¬ 
cause the high temperature of this summerlike 
April day had not had time to dry the wet ground. 
They subsided to munch candy and let her have 
her way with them. 

Cis had carefully planned her story, and she 
told it well, the story of an imaginary little Roman 
hoy, who might have lived, who dearly loved 
St. Sebastian. She told them how this brave young 
soldier and his little friend had died, for she 
made her fictitious little citizen of the City of the 
Catacombs share the fate of the older youth, whose 
story was true. 

Then leaning toward the lads whose eyes were 
fixed upon her own, clasping her hands, her eager 
face flushed and earnest, her glorious red hair shin¬ 
ing under a ray of sunshine until it seemed to il¬ 
lumine the shady glen, Cis begged her little adorers 
to hold fast to that for which Sebastian’s arrows had 
been faced, for which those little lads of old—and 
many since—had truly lived and gladly died. 

Thus it was that Anselm Lancaster, coming down 
the glen from behind her, found Cis, and paused to 
wonder, with reverence added to the admiration he 
had already learned to feel for her. 

One of the boys discovered him, and started up 
from his prone position, with a threatening gesture. 



THE CABLE 


379 


“Who’s de guy? Here, this is a private show; 
no buttin’ in!” he cried. 

Anselm Lancaster laughed, and came forward as 
Cis leaped up and faced him, knowing at the first 
syllable of her indignant little guest’s protest, whom 
she should see. 

“It is a mean trick to butt in, I’m afraid,” Mr. 
Lancaster said. “Miss Adair, will you tolerate a 
larger boy here?” 

He stood smiling, tall and handsome, as different 
from ordinary men as Tom had described him; as 
far beyond them, Cis thought, seeing him anew 
after so long a time. 

“Mr. Lancaster!” she cried, as if she had not been 
expecting him all the afternoon; wondering in the 
back of her brain why he did not come; if it had 
not been he, after all, whom Tom had seen in the 
station. “Where did you come from? And how 
glad I am that you did come!” 

“Then you don’t resent what your small friend 
here calls my butting in?” Mr. Lancaster suggested, 
looking no less happy than the smallest boy there. 

“I went to see you, but your friend Mrs.?— 
Nan?—told me that you were away, and how to 
find you. She seemed to think I might come to the 
glen. You look well? Yes, I think you look well, 
but I’m not sure of it; you are not just as you were 
in Beaconhite, are you?” 

“No, I’m not,” said Cis. “But I’m perfectly well. 
What of Miss Braithwaite?” 

“She is at home again. She was going to write 
you, hut when I suggested seeing you instead, she 


380 


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jumped at the idea. She said it was because she de¬ 
tests letter writing, but I think she wanted closer 
communication with you, to get my report of you. 
I came on with Paul, Paul Randolph. He is going 
to marry Miss Lucas—but she said that she had 
told you,” Mr. Lancaster checked himself. 

“She did. I hoped—I mean I thought perhaps 
•—Well, he is lucky, that’s certain. I’d be glad to 
have him marry Jeanette if I were his friend,” Cis 
stammered, confused. 

Anselm Lancaster elevated his eyebrows with 
a quizzical look. He quite well knew what Cis 
would have said if she had gone on with the be¬ 
ginning of her sentence. But all that he said was: 

“I suspect it is one of your secret employments 
to provide for your friends’ happiness! And aren’t 
you glad that these two are engaged, being a friend 
of Miss Lucas? Indeed you well may be; Paul 
Randolph is a fine fellow!” 

“Oh, I know he is! I admired him last sum¬ 
mer, but Jeanette is fit for the best, and I’m glad, 
surely! She’s perfectly happy. Mr. Lancaster, I’ve 
got to see to the boys! Do you mind? I’d far 
rather not, but see that pair over there? That 
tussle is getting too earnest.” Cis pointed to wrest¬ 
ling that was rapidly degenerating into a fight. 

“I’ve done a meddlesome thing. I want to tell 
the lads about it before I tell you, because then you 
can’t betray how angry you are with me! But first 
may I show that pair—the others will not stand off 
long!—a trick or two of Japanese wrestling? Don’t 
he afraid; I’ll show them how to use it properly. 


THE CABLE 


381 


They won’t come to harm, and boys have to scrap; 
kittens and puppies do, too, you know!” Anselm 
Lancaster began to take off his coat as he spoke, not 
waiting for Cicely’s assent to his proposal. 

She looked at him wondering. Was this the man 
whom she had feared, even when she felt most at 
home with him and admired him? His nearly forty 
years had been thrown off as he was throwing off 
his coat; he was like one of the older boys among 
her guests, except that his body showed the fine 
lines of breeding and training as he faced the lads, 
the wind blowing his silken shirt and rumpling his 
brown hair. 

“Come on, boys!” he said tightening his belt and 
settling the loose collar of his shirt. “I know a 
thing or two about the way the Japs wrestle. Stand 
up to me, you biggest boy over there, and I’ll give 
you some points which you’ll find good to know, if 
ever you’re in a tight place. I’ll teach the whole 
crowd, but you come on first. And in case the lady 
in whose charge we’re all here, she*that-must-be- 
obeyed, is afraid we’ll be too late getting home. I’ll 
tell you that we aren’t going to walk it. I ordered 
a truck to come after us at six; it will hold us all, 
and get us back to town in fifteen minutes; less! 
How does it strike you?” 

It struck them into silence for the space of a 
breath, and then into a babel of noisy approval. 

“Oh, Mr. Lancaster, how kind you are! And 
what a lark!” cried Cis, flushed with delight. “Boys, 
if you’re yelling, yell right! Three times three for 
Mr. Lancaster! Come on; I’ll lead!” 


382 


THE GABLE 


Cis bent over and waved her arms in the ap¬ 
proved manner; she had led her school yells in 
days past. The nine cheers were given deafeningly, 
ending with: “Rah, rah, rah; Lancaster!” which the 
boys approved, though they missed its meaning. 

Then Mr. Lancaster initiated the boys into the 
beginnings of Jiu-jitsu till the big truck came into 
the glen, and they all piled in warm, hungry, bliss¬ 
fully happy. 

Mr. Lancaster stood on the running board and 
looked the boys over. 

“Going to stick to Mass every Sunday, and stand 
by like good fellows, every one of you? Come now, 
that’s to be a promise! Don’t make it unless you 
mean to keep it, but make it and keep it; see the 
idea?” he said. 

He put out his hand to each boy in turn, and 
each boy put his grimy hand into it, and gave the 
promise. 

The truck made the four miles of homeward road 
in less than fifteen minutes. When the boys had all 
dispersed, Mr. Lancaster turned to Cis. 

“Fine party. Miss Cis,” he said. “Some day, after 
they’ve broken that promise, some of those lads 
will remember it again and that you were a good 
sport, yet loved God.” 

“They’ll remember much more that the fine gen¬ 
tleman who could wrestle and jump was not a de¬ 
serter,” retorted Cis warmly. “I can’t thank you 
for making my party so splendid, the ride back and 
everything, but you don’t want my thanks! Will 
you come with me to supper at Nan’s? She’ll be 


THE CABLE 


383 


delighted if you will come. Or—where shall I hear 
about Miss Braithwaite?” 

“When I come for you to-night. We are to 
spend the evening with Miss Lucas—Paul being un¬ 
derstood!’’ replied Anselm Lancaster promptly. 
“Will you be ready at shortly after eight? We have 
important matters to settle; I’m an ambassador.” 

“From Miss Braithwaite?” cried Cis. “Oh, Mr. 
Lancaster, I want to see her! I miss it all so much!” 

“Good to hear that!” He smiled at her. “I won’t 
tell you my errand now, but you will walk slowly 
and let me present my credentials from the Lady 
Miriam to-night?” 

“Oh, yes!” Cis laughed from sheer pleasure. 
“I’ve been getting homesick. Nan is as dear as 
ever, good, and sweet and dear, but she is so much 
married!” 

Anselm Lancaster laughed. “She met me with 
a handsome baby on her hip; I thought she 
seemed to like him! But she assured me that you 
were almost as fond of him as she is; this was when 
I commented on his charms,” he said. 

“Like him! Well, yes, Nan does like him!” Cis 
laughed also. “And I am nearly as mad over him 
as she is, but—” Cis hesitated. 

“But the finest baby is not a career for any other 
woman save his mother! Then to-night? It is 
good to see you again, Miss Cicely,” Mr. Lancaster 
said. 

That night Mr. Lancaster came to Nan’s door a 
little before the appointed hour. “I seem to be 
arranging things to suit myself to-day,” he an- 


384 


THE CABLE 


nounced to Cis when she appeared. “I called up 
Miss Lucas and said that I had to see you to-night 
on behalf of Miss Braithwaite, and that we would 
not spend the evening there. Instead, I have found 
a car like my own at the garage and have taken it 
for the evening. It is a beautiful night, soft little 
breeze, pleasant-tempered little moon! I’m going 
to drive you about and talk to you. Do you mind?” 

“Not a bit!” Cis hoped that she did not betray 
how little she minded. “I must get a heavier wrap, 
though. Just a minute, and I’ll be ready.” 

“Whither away?” asked Mr. Lancaster, when Cis 
was disposed on the seat beside him, a light-weight 
rug over her knees. 

“Anywhere! I don’t care where; I don’t know 
many roads beyond here, though I was born and 
brought up here. I don’t think it matters much 
which direction you take.” 

“We’ll recklessly drive and turn corners, and 
after a while have to ask the way back! That 
sounds alluring. I always wanted to be lost!” cried 
Anselm Lancaster. 

“Oh, did you? So did I!” cried Cis. “I used to 
try to lose myself when I was a little girl, but I have 
an Indian’s sense of direction, and I always went 
right!” 

“Great thing to have a true sense of direction, 
and go right when roads are obscure,” said Anselm. 

Cis did not answer; she heard a sub-meaning in 
his voice, and wondered if he were thinking of her 
bewilderment nearly two years ago. 

“Now, about Miss Braithwaite,” said Anselm, 


THE CABLE 


385 


getting away from her silence and her thoughts, 
which he divined, and from his own meaning which 
he knew that she had caught. “Miss Miriam’s 
friend has died, after agony that must have directly 
opened heaven to her. Miss Miriam stayed by her 
to the end; it was not easy to see. But there’s no 
use dwelling on that, beyond resolving to make her 
return home as cheerful as possible. You know 
what Miss Braithwaite is; she does not repine, and 
she has met this torture in the spirit that is hers. 
It’s almost harder to see agony that can’t be re¬ 
lieved, except by anaesthetics daily losing their 
efficacy, than it is to bear it. Miss Miriam is sixty- 
five years old, dear Miss Cis. That isn’t old; we 
know how unfailing her strength is, her strength of 
character, of mind, of efficiency, but old age may 
be seen coming along at sixty-five, much as if she 
were standing on the corner waiting for a trolley 
transfer, and the other trolley which she was to take 
were bounding down its track toward her.” 

“I don’t want Miss Braithwaite to be old! I 
can’t bear to think of it. She’s one of those per¬ 
sons who should never be old; so clever, so bril¬ 
liant, so highly good!” protested Cis. 

“And so vital,” added Anselm. “I can’t imagine 
her old. But it would be hard to deny her the re¬ 
ward of the qualities which make us want to hold 
her fast; I imagine that, while she willingly lives 
and works, she will be glad to lay down this life 
when she is permitted to. No one whose appraisals 
are as accurate as hers can value life in itself. How¬ 
ever, that’s beyond our authority. She is lonely, 


386 


THE CABLE 


dear Miss Cis, and she had grown fond of you, de¬ 
pendent on your youth, your sense of humor, your 
mind, which in all its workings responds to hers.” 

“Oh, me!” cried Cis. “Why, I’m only twenty- 
three, for one thing, and I’m not clever, nor trav¬ 
elled, nor well-read, so—■” 

“It isn’t nice to set up tenpins for me to bowl 
over,” Anselm teased her. “No one can safely 
drive and bowl at the same time. You know quite 
well that Miss Braithwaite was happy with you. You 
were a bright spot in her charming, but silent 
house. The proof of this is that she wants you back. 
She was going to write to you, but I’m her ambas¬ 
sador, as I told you this afternoon. She bids me 
beg of you to come back, back to stay, to make your 
home with her permanently, unless you find some¬ 
thing else that calls to your true vocation as we both 
think you will. She bade me say that if it made 
you happier to resume your secretaryship, she was 
entirely willing, or for you to take up any other 
work, if you like to be occupied, feel independent. 
She says that this is not necessary; there would be 
no question of obligation to her, 6 slie needs you too 
badly’—that is what she said—but she will not op¬ 
pose you. 4 All that she asks is that she may see 
your bright head beside her hearth, know that you 
are coming home to her, as her daughter would 
come, at the close of every day.’ That is literally her 
message, Miss Cicely. I do not think that you can 
find it in your heart to say her no.” 

Cis did not speak for a few minutes. Anselm 
went on silently guiding the smooth motion of the 




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car, guessing that she was as deeply moved as she 
actually was. At last Cis spoke, saying: 

“You must know how this makes me feel, Mr. 
Lancaster. She has been so good to me; she is so 
wonderful, and now this! And I am alone. I don’t 
suppose anybody, no matter how young and strong 
and jolly she may be, can help feeling alone when 
she is alone! It’s strange that Miss Braithwaite 
wants me now. I have been growing restless, unsat¬ 
isfied; I don’t know what is wrong. I don’t enjoy 
being here. I love the baby and Nan, but—I’m 
ashamed, but Miss Braithwaite, and Father Morley 
and you, and even the big things in Mr. Lucas’ office, 
have all spoiled me for nice, steady, dull little days! 
I’m not better than Nan in brains; not nearly as 
good in the other sense, but, I’ve been fed on 
stronger food. Even her marriage—Joe is really a 
good boy; I do like him, but—Well, it isn’t what 
you’d think it would be; what Fd think it would be, 
anyway! It’s just like bread and butter three times 
a day, every day in the year!” 

Anselm Lancaster laughed, but he shook his 
head. 

“Don’t you get to craving things too far beyond 
common human experience,” he warned her. “The 
fact that it is called common experience means that 
it is the best lot for the majority. I’ll warrant that 
to your Nan her husband is an oracle of wisdom, 
and a fount of charm! She’s safe, too; remember 
that’s no small asset in marriage. The sort of mar¬ 
riage that you describe goes peacefully into old age, 
undiminished in satisfaction, while hundreds are 


388 


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shipwrecked around it which started out to a glori¬ 
ous fanfare of the trumpets of romance and un¬ 
founded idealization. However, I grant you that 
sort of life is not for you. You have outgrown your 
childhood comrades, the malnutritive food of little 
* minds. You’ve been living at high speed for three 
years, Cicely Adair; you’ve left behind you the 
things of your childhood. Just how does all this 
apply to Miss Braithwaite’s appeal to you to come 
to her? I’d say that it made it most opportune.” 

“It does, oh, it does!” cried Cis. “It takes my 
breath away. To go back feeling that I’m wanted, 
maybe needed; that I’m to go to make a home there; 
that all that beautiful, helpful life for others will 
be my life; that I’ll read, think, learn, have Father 
Morley to guide me—Mr. Lancaster, I’ve spoken to 
you frankly, just as I always did. I’ve always felt 
that you would understand. You won t think I was 
criticizing dear little Nannie? I’d give my head to 
be as good as she is; dear little soul, always putting 
me up, and herself down! But—I want Beacon- 
hite, and what I had there. Tell me truthfully, is 
it right for me to go? Ought I go?” 

Anselm Lancaster let the car drop down to a low 
speed, and turned to look at Cis, with an expression 
on his face which, though she saw it clearly in the 
brilliant light of the interior of the car, she could 
not construe. 

“Yes, Cicely,” he said. “Truthfully I think that 
your place is there. I love Miss Miriam dearly; she 
is more to me than any of my kindred, more than 
any other friend. If it were only that you can be to 



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her, now that she needs sustaining, what you can be 
would seem to me enough reason for your going, 
you who are entirely free to go and do as you will. 
She has been a real power for good, an instrument 
which has helped to carve out the way for others 
to follow her into the Catholic Church, and one 
whose charity has bridged many a poor wretch back 
into a possible manner of living when hope seemed 
over for him. What can you ask better than to 
repay some of the debt God’s children owe this 
woman? And you say that she has done much for 
you. I think that your place is in Beaconhite. If 
the decision rests with me, I say: Come! Thrice 
over: Come! And may all that lies ahead of you 
there, all that may come of it, be blessed and 
guided. How can I say aught else, save: Come?” 

Cis looked up at him with a tiny smile, her under 
lip slightly drawn in, as a child who is half grieved, 
half glad smiles. She had many childish ways of 
face and hands; Anselm Lancaster and Miss Braith- 
waite found them her greatest charm. 

“How beautiful to have what you want most to 
do also your duty!” she murmured. 

“It always is when she who desires is innocent of 
wrong-doing, whose heart is God’s first of all,” said 
Anselm Lancaster, his words barely audible above 
the softly purring engine. “Don’t you know, Cicely 
of the red-gold locks, that desire is one of the marks 
of a vocation? It was the Puritans who put into 
our heads the notion that it was praiseworthy to 
hate the thing one chooses. Love Beaconhite and 
Miss Braithwaite and choose them! Amen.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


PORT 

TT WAS settled that Cis was to return to Beacon- 
hite. Mr. Lancaster had gone back, and im¬ 
mediately there came a brief, warm, characteristic 
letter from Miss Braithwaite to Cis. 

“You are to come home on any terms you choose, 
my dear,” she wrote, “as long as you come; there 
are no terms to my wanting you. If you will es¬ 
tablish yourself in this house for good and all it 
will be transformed. My library is large, but not 
large enough to fill the vacancy in my life. Sum¬ 
mer is coming, and I shall not be able to keep a fire 
on the hearth much of the time; can’t you see how 
the library will need your hair in it? I need your 
radiance, my child; you are a most vivifying person, 
Cicely Adair! Other fires than that on my hearth 
are burning low; I grow chilled. Anselm tells me 
that you are coming, yet hesitate on the heels of the 
resolve lest you may not make good—isn’t that the 
way to put it? Let me judge. You know how fully 
I speak my mind; I suppose no one ever is doubt¬ 
ful of my meanings! Then, when I say that com¬ 
ing to live with me will fulfil several of the corporal 
works of mercy—feeding the hungry, comforting 
the sorrowful, visiting the sick—of mind, at least— 
it is strictly true. I am impatiently waiting for 

390 



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391 


you; come as soon as you can, please. And be sure 
that I am not only lovingly, but gratefully, Your 
grumpy old friend, Miriam Braithwaite.” 

“You are glad to leave me, Cis—and baby!” Nan 
reproached her. 

“You are so completely married, Nannie! And 
I can’t claim my godson unless I do away with you 
and Joe,” Cis replied. “With Jeanette living in 
Beaconhite I’ll have one girl friend there. Father 
Morley will teach me what I ought to know; he’s 
truly a great man. You know what Miss Braith¬ 
waite is; I’ve told you as much as can be told about 
her. Life in that house is never far off from the 
greatest, the eternal things, but it is also overflow¬ 
ing with beauty of books, music, art—and Miss 
Braithwaite does so love to play like a child, but a 
witty, wonderful child! It’s a beautiful life; I can’t 
help being glad to live it. But you know I love you, 
Nannie!” 

Cis took her small friend in her arms to kiss her 
hard. 

“There’s no chance for Tom, Cis?” hinted Nan. 
“I thought, possibly, when you sent Rodney Moore 
away—I know you did send him!—that maybe—? 
Mother is so anxious for it; she’s going to talk to 
you before you go.” 

“Oh, Nan, don’t let her!” protested Cis. “That’s 
awful; second-hand wooing! If a girl were begin¬ 
ning to think about a man I’d suppose that it would 
turn her off to have his mother come to offer him 
to her! Don’t let your mother try that! And help 
me to dodge nice young Tommy! Because I’ll 



392 


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never in all this world marry the boy, so why bother 
about it?” 

“Why, indeed,” sighed Nan. “I’ll try to head 
off my family. I think Tom is convinced that he 
stands no chance.” 

“He knows I’m truthful and sure of what I 
want,” Cis said lightly. “Now I’m going to talk to 
Mr. Singer. We’ve everything running in fine 
shape down there; it won’t be hard to fit someone 
into my shoes.” 

“I wish Miss Gallatin would take it,” said Nan. 

“I wish she could,” Cis said thoughtfully. “But 
it ought to be someone younger, more ornamental. 
Girls forget that sort of woman made herself what 
she is by being the right sort of girl; they think they 
were always elderly and were born with serious, 
decorous clothes on, commonsense shoes, and car¬ 
rying an umbrella to be ready for storms—a figura¬ 
tive umbrella against figurative storms, too! Miss 
Gallatin is going to stay on in the Lucas household 
when Jeanette leaves it. After all, she has a big 
field there; all those children and an invalid 
mother! I wish I could get a Catholic woman into 
the club of Bells—that’s what I call it, but Mr. 
Singer won’t let me use that nice name. Lots of the 
girls are the kind of Catholics I was, need the 
Catholic woman, and she wouldn’t harm the others! 
Girls aren’t a bad lot, but it’s marvellous how 
crookedly they see and think! I’d like to furnish 
them all with folding pocket rules to measure up 
by!” 

Nan laughed, then sighed. “You’d do for a 


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393 


pocket rule for all of them, if you’d stay here,” she 
said. “A girl like you can do wonders. I’m sorry, 
sorry you’re going!” 

“Let’s hope I’ll shine as a light to girls in Beacon- 
hite; there are girls there, silly Nancy!” laughed 
Cis. “Nan, I think they named that city expressly 
for my coming to it! Hasn’t it been a beacon on 
the height to me?” 

“It’s your post graduate college; it’s made you 
grow up. Oh dear, Cis, I’ve grown up, too, in the 
same time, but you have grown away from me!” 

“Fast friends forever!” Cis corrected her, and 
pretended to mop tears out of Nan’s eyes with her 
handkerchief. 

Yet when it came to the actual parting it was Cis, 
not Nan, who cried tempestuously. She realized 
that this was a farewell that was final, however true 
it might be that they were, as she had said herself, 
“fast friends forever.” Complete divergence of 
paths and interest ends, not the will to friendship, 
but its actuality. At their age Nan, married and 
settled, Cis going on to meet life, would pass out of 
knowledge of their common beginning. She and 
Nan would contrive to meet occasionally, and, thus 
meeting, find it difficult to talk together after the 
first exchange of news items was over. Cis recog¬ 
nized this, and felt it sad, but she attributed her 
crying to little Matt. 

“He will grow every day, and do something new 
and darling every day, and I shall not see him, and 
he won’t know me when I do see him! If only 
babies wouldn’t grow up and begin to go to school 


394 


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so soon!” she sobbed, mumbling her godson’s soft 
cheeks. 

“Mercy!” cried Nan, shocked by the suggestion 
that her son would soon take his place in the ranks 
of those in the second age of man’s career. 

Miss Braithwaite’s coupe was waiting at the 
Beaconhite station to take Cis home when she ar¬ 
rived. She jumped into it with a thrill of joy and 
received Miss Braithwaite’s quiet, warm welcome 
shyly, yet with high delight. It seemed to her that 
at last “she belonged,” as she told herself; that this 
was a true home-coming. 

Miss Braithwaite looked tired; Cis saw it after 
they had reached the house and were settled down 
to tea-serving by Ellen in the splendid library. At 
Miss Braithwaite’s age the effects of hard experi¬ 
ence take the appearance of physical ills, and often 
their form; it was less that Miss Braithwaite looked 
as if she had borne grief since Cis had last seen her, 
than that she looked as if she had seriously over¬ 
taxed herself, her nervous strength. 

“Oh, how good this is! How happy and how 
good!” Cis sighed dropping her hat on the chair 
nearest to her, leaning back in the low chair which 
she occupied and rumpling her heavy coils of hair 
into a looseness adjusted to the upholstery. 

“I’ve been bad, Miss Braithwaite, restless, unsat¬ 
isfied, not knowing what was wrong, but suspecting 
a whole lot of things! And the suspicion that it was 
this house and Beaconhite was right! I wanted to 
be here.” 

“We are going to talk later; now it is tea, then 


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395 


rest, and this evening talk,” declared Miss Braith- 
waite. “Anselm wanted to come here to-night, but 
I forbade it; cloister observance for us this first 
night! Jeanette Lucas is to marry Paul Randolph, 
and be near by. Are you glad?” 

“Indeed I am, only—Well, of course she wants 
to marry Mr. Randolph,” Cis hesitated. 

“Nothing wrong with him; I’d find him a bit 
dull,” declared Miss Braithwaite. “He’s intelli¬ 
gent, has a nice mind; can’t turn it into currency 
to pay his way. I like a talker, as you know. But 
he is truly fine, and that he is nobly good he has 
given proof. There won’t be lacking those who 
will say that he recognized his opportunity; that 
marrying Jeanette Lucas was wise, and that his sac¬ 
rifice of an income will be made up to him without 
much loss of time.” 

“How contemptible!” cried Cis. “As though 
there were need of looking beyond Jeanette her¬ 
self for a reason for wanting to marry her! If Mr. 
Randolph had that sort of worldly prudence he 
need not have come into the Church at all! Why 
are human beings so mean?” 

“Because they are human, my dear. People must 
belittle fine actions when they are small people; big 
deeds are most annoying to small minds; they take 
them as personal affronts,” returned Miss Braith¬ 
waite placidly. “It really does not matter about the 
chatter of parrakeets. If you are so partizan of 
Paul Randolph why did you seem to hesitate just 
now in approving the marriage?” 

“I always hoped Jeanette would marry Mr. Lan- 


396 


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caster, you know,” said Cis promptly. “But 
neither of them ever showed symptoms, so I don’t 
suppose it’s Mr. Randolph’s fault.” 

“Not in the least!” Miss Braithwaite laughed. “I 
sometimes think it may be another girl’s fault, 
though. I suspect Anselm of other wishes.” 

“How exciting!” cried Cis. “Aren’t you going to 
tell me? He seems so splendid, so interested in 
affairs, it’s hard to imagine him thinking of marry¬ 
ing.” 

Miss Braithwaite laughed again, but she held up 
her hands in horror. 

“Now heaven forfend!” she cried. “Cis, are you 
transforming poor Anselm into the hero of the 
early Victorian novel? Solitary, superior, remote, 
a demi-god, with the human, half wishy-washy, arti¬ 
ficial? Because it’s distinctly unfair of you, if you 
are! He is thoroughly a human being, but he has 
made his humanity what God meant a man to be. 
To my mind he’s forceful, strong and quick in feel¬ 
ing; a vital man. He’s precisely the man to think 
of marriage, and not to think of it coolly, but to 
bring to it a great love, such as would honor any 
woman and make her happy.” 

Cis stirred uneasily; she could not have said why 
she felt uncomfortable, ill-at-ease. 

“I don’t think anything of him that you would 
not want me to think. Miss Braithwaite,” she said. 
“I don’t know him as you do, of course, but I ad¬ 
mire him almost as much. If only you could have 
seen him with those boys! And Tom said in the 
station everybody stared at him.” 


THE CABLE 


397 


“Boys? Station ?” echoed Miss Braithwaite. 
“Tell me.” 

And Cis told her the story, to which she listened 
without comment. 

The next day Cis spent happily picking up the 
dropped threads of her Beaconhite existence. She 
went to Mr. Lucas’ office and received a welcome 
beyond her expectation. 

“Ah, my dear!” Mr. Lucas cried. “Now I shall 
have you back as soon as I can open the way for 
you! You were a good secretary; I miss you. But 
you were also a good confessor of the Faith! Amaz¬ 
ing, but it was you who first brought home to me 
unescapably what I’d been suspecting all along; 
that there really was something unaccountable on 
natural grounds in the Old Church. I’m going to 
be a Catholic at Pentecost, my dear Cicely!” 

“Yes, I know; Jeanette told me. I’m so thank¬ 
ful! And I could cry when you say I was the one 

who set vou on!” Cis exclaimed. 

* 

“Nothing to cry over! We don’t cry Te Deums, 
and that’s your theme,” Mr. Lucas smiled at her. 
44 When will you return to the office? As soon as I 
provide the space?” 

“I think so, Mr. Lucas. Miss Braithwaite would 
rather I’d stay at home all the time, but I’m afraid 
that’s a risk for a red-haired girl; they’re not 
crickets on hearths! Miss Braithwaite promises me 
all that I can do, though. We’ll see. May I have 
a few days in which to adjust?” Cis asked. ”Now 
I’m going on to find Father Morley. ’ 

The Jesuit was at home; he received Cis with his 


398 


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cordial, yet appraising look that took an inventory 
of her days since he had last seen her. He seemed 
satisfied with what he saw; his eyes softened and 
smiled approvingly. He recognized in Cicely’s face 
a new expression of self-reliance, purpose; peace 
that was not incompatible with the eager, wistful, 
unsatisfied look which her face also wore. 

“Ready for the next thing,” he told himself, “and 
it’s not far ahead of her.” 

But aloud he said: “I am glad, exceedingly glad 
that you have come back to us. Cicely. Miss Braith- 
waite is thankful; she is deeply attached to you. 
You wrote me of that remarkable sequel to your 
fidelity to God’s law. Do you care to tell me more 
about it?” 

“I want to tell you all about it, Father,” Cis an¬ 
swered. “I might have married Rodney without 
wrong-doing, but—Father, I couldn’t! Isn’t that 
strange? I didn’t want to. I’m not a fickle person, 
but I didn’t want to. He told me that I had been 
right as to his still being married. He felt that there 
was no divorce when he knelt by his dying wife. 
It’s all strange, isn’t it?” 

“That isn’t,” said Father Morley. “It is strange, 
that you were the one who saved that poor creature 
from suicide to die like a Christian, but it is not 
strange that her husband recognized the indis¬ 
soluble link between them. You will find it al¬ 
ways true that the supernatural law does no vio¬ 
lence to the natural law, but, on the contrary, con¬ 
firms it, while elevating it beyond nature. To my 
mind that is one of the proofs of the Church. 


THE CABLE 


399 


Heretics have gone contrary to natural laws in all 
sorts of ways. The Church repeatedly proves that 
the hand of the Creator is also the hand that 
founded her. She has sanctified, ennobled, super- 
naturalized, not contradicted man’s natural in¬ 
stincts and desires. Well, well! You’re not de¬ 
manding her proofs! Why do I set poor little you 
up as an heretical tenpin to be bowled over? What 
is your next step, or do you not know it yet, Cicely 
Adair?” 

“No, Father,” replied Cis wistfully. “I don’t 
know a step; not the next one, nor any beyond that. 
Do you think I might be a nun? A Sister of Char¬ 
ity would be more in my line; active, you know. Is 
that what I’m made for?” 

Father Morley looked at her gravely, yet with a 
quizzical twinkle in his eye, as if he were enjoying 
with himself a pleasant secret. 

“No, my child, I do not think that is your voca¬ 
tion,” he said. “I think that you are meant to be 
a real helpmeet to a fine man; to do good in the 
world, bear witness to the value of Catholic Faith 
and standards, and train up your sons and 
daughters to carry on that noble inheritance, while 
they rise up and call you blessed. Perhaps one day 
to see your son raise his hands before the altar, 
holding in them the Host, and to kneel, thanking 
God with tears, that you upheld those hands for 
that miracle.” 

“Father!” cried Cicely, and was silent, tears on 
her cheeks. “If I might! I’d like that most of all,” 
she murmured after an instant. 


400 


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Anselm Lancaster came that evening to see Cis; 
he announced that his call was wholly for her. Cis 
saw him come into the library with amazement that 
his presence so changed it. There was about him 
a buoyant happiness; charm went out from him, 
and purposeful assertion, which was far from con¬ 
ceit, sat on his every movement. 

“Miss Miriam, Cicely Adair has never seen my 
house. I was offended last year that you never 
showed it to her, as much as you drove about, 
but I hid my wrath. Now I’m out for revenge! I’m 
going to show it to her myself, and not invite you! 
Cicely, I’ll be here at half past two to-morrow af¬ 
ternoon. Please be ready to drive with me, out to 
my house—it’s a shame you’ve not been shown it! 
—and also wherever the fancy takes us to go. This 
selfish and unfriendly Miss Miriam shall sit here 
and languish, eating her heart out till we return!” 

“Is it a matter so serious as a heart-consuming?” 
asked Miss Braithwaite. 

She caught and returned the flash of a look 
which Anselm darted at her. 

“I’ll not pretend a virtue I lack; I hope so!” he 
said. 

Cis was ready when he came for her; he helped 
her into his car, and she cried out, almost reproach¬ 
fully: 

“A new car! Why are men always changing 
cars? What did you do with that nice one, the 
roadster?” 

“Turned it in; I don’t need two. I thought when 
Paul and Jeanette were married, and you were 



THE CABLE 


401 


here, we’d need the five passenger; we can take 
Miss Braithwaite, too. But please don’t speak of 
that nice one; as if it weren’t this nice one! Let me 
tell you I’m proud of this car!” Anselm said as he 
shoved out the brake and started. 

“Of course you are! They always are! Boys of 
new knives; men of new cars! They are much 
alike, aren’t they?” said Cis. 

“Knives and cars? Oh, I don’t know; I could 
always distinguish the differences,” Anselm re¬ 
marked. 

“Boys and men! I never thought you would be 
stupid!” Cis said severely. 

“I’ll prove to you I’m not, if you’ll wait a bit!” 
Anselm’s remark sounded like a continuation of 
the nonsense they were happily talking, but his look 
silenced Cis, and set her nervously wondering why 
it made her nervous. 

The Lancaster house was far finer than Cis had 
expected to find it. She had known all along that 
Anselm Lancaster had wealth; he used it gener¬ 
ously, and it must have been considerable for him 
to accomplish with it all that he did. But ocular 
proof is another thing from hearsay. Here was a 
house of great dignity, standing in the midst of con¬ 
siderable land, approached by an avenue of old 
trees. Its solid doors, opening, revealed a stately 
hall; in the rooms opening from the hall Cis found 
old furniture, beautiful and stately. Pictures which 
even her untrained eye instantly knew for good 
ones, hung on the walls; bronzes, a tall clock, all 
sorts of beauty which was evidently the slow accu- 


402 


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mulation by many people with taste and means to 
gratify it, filled the house. 

“How beautiful!” cried Cis. “Why, Mr. Lancas¬ 
ter, it’s what the novels call a mansion! It’s as fine 
as Miss Braithwaite’s house!” 

“They are contemporaries. Her great-grand¬ 
father and mine, and each generation since, have 
been friends. This house was built when hers was. 
My people were not Catholics, till my grandmother 
married a Lancaster and brought this house to him; 
she became a Catholic after she had married him. 
My father married a saintly woman; it is two gen¬ 
erations—I the third—since the Lancaster house 
became a Catholic home. Now I try to make it a 
home for converts who are put to too hard a test 
at first; a temporary home, of course. I’m more 
than glad that you like my house, Cicely!” 

Anselm spoke in a curious muffled voice, and 
Cis smiled up at him, disturbed, at a loss to ac¬ 
count for it, and for the disturbance which she 
recognized in him. “How could I not like it?” she 
said. 

“Will you come to see my dear mother’s sitting 
room?” Anselm asked, going toward the stairs. “It 
is up one flight. It is like a chapel to me; I’ve 
often wanted to make it into one, but there are 
necessary sleeping rooms over it; I can’t use it for 
a chapel. It is the room in which I was happiest 
as a child, though I was always happy. It is the 
room where I learned to love books and all beauty, 
and where my soul was born through the soul of 
that lovely creature who gave me physical life.” 


THE CABLE 


403 


Cis followed him, wondering, deeply moved. 
This was not the Anselm Lancaster she knew, yet 
it was not the contradiction of him; rather it was 
his efflorescence. He led her into a small, light 
room, facing toward the sunset, which was not yet, 
nor for hours, due. Evidently the room had not 
been changed since it had been used by the mother 
whom he had so dearly loved. Books, a work-bas¬ 
ket, were on the table; a low armchair, considerably 
worn, stood beside the table. Anselm gently put 
Cis into it, and stood before her. 

“My mothers chair, dear Cicely,” he said. “I 
like to see you there. How you would have loved 
each other! Cis, dear, lovely, glowing Cicely, don’t 
you know what I’ve brought you here to tell you? 
Don’t you know? Haven’t you guessed?” 

Slowly Cis shook her head, looking at him in¬ 
tently, as if she were groping her way, her mind re¬ 
jecting the one explanation of his words that it 
could present to her. 

“Why, I love you, Cis! That’s what it is. That’s 
easy to guess, easier to understand!” cried Anselm. 

“No, no, no! It’s impossible to understand!” 
cried Cis. 

“You’re going to marry me, dearest; you’re going 
to be here in my mother’s place, always. Can’t you 
love me? I love you so much!” Anselm pleaded. 

“I never once thought of it; never once!” Cis 

cried. 

“You don’t have to think of it; just do it!” An¬ 
selm said boyishly. 

“I think you are the best, the finest—” began 


404 


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Cis, but he interrupted her with an impatient ex¬ 
clamation. 

“Good heavens, Cis, stop! That’s nothing to tell 
me, nor to feel! Love me; don’t admire me!” 

“Isn’t it? I think I couldn’t love anyone I didn’t 
admire,” said Cis, trying to find her puzzled way. 
“I loved someone; you know that. I was crazy to 
see him; it made my breath short when he came; 
I—One doesn’t love again, does she? But I know 
now that I couldn’t love him last winter because I 
didn’t admire him.” 

“Cis, dear,” began Anselm, sitting on the edge 
of the table as if he meant to argue it out, “I think 
we don’t love again in that same first way; it’s the 
dream of youth. I had it, too, but I was only a lad 
of seventeen when I fell madly in love. You were 
older than I when it happened to you but you were 
not much older, and you were no more experienced, 
and experience is what counts in these things. 
There is a glamor over everything that is part of 
that time of life, and we have our first love hard. 
But, dear, it’s not in the same class with our later, 
mature love. Do you imagine I felt for that little 
fluffy girl of twenty whom I loved when I was sev¬ 
enteen, anything like what I feel for you? Nor was 
that first love of yours, which you so bravely con¬ 
quered for God’s sake, the love you’ll feel for your 
husband, who will be one with you in all things of 
soul and body. Cis, honestly—though it may sound 
conceited—I am sure you love me. Will you be 
sure of it? Father Morley, Miss Braithwaite, Jean¬ 
ette, hope for it.” 


THE CABLE 


405 


*'Oh! Do they all know?*’ gasped Cis. 

“That I love you? Surely. Blind little Cis not 
to have known it yourself! But now that you do 
know it—” 

“I couldn’t so much as think of marrying you!” 
Cis hastily interrupted him. “Why, I’d be—what 
would I be? One of the people brought into a 
country to serve it, then deserting its flag—a 
traitor! That’s it! Miss Braithwaite imported me 
to live with her, be almost a daughter to her. Much 
good I’d do her if I—” 

“Now, Cicely, can’t you trust Miss Miriam to 
me?” Anselm interrupted in his turn. “Do you 
suppose we haven’t discussed my hopes? Haven’t 
I just told you that she wanted them fulfilled? 
Good mothers do not want to mortgage their 
daughters’ lives; they want them to find their own 
places and happily fill them. Miss Braithwaite 
shall not lose you if I win you, dear one! She is 
most anxious for this marriage, Cis. 4 Cis must come 
to me, Anselm; then you shall woo her at your best. 
She shall be in her home, the home that holds you 
part of it, and I hope that will incline her to 
harken to you. But if not, then at least she is still 
in her own home; the dear child will be made se¬ 
cure however she decides.’ That is what she said 
to me. Cicely beloved, before I went away to try to 
bring you back. Marry me, then there will be an¬ 
other besides ourselves happy; Miss Miriam the 
third rejoicing.” 

“I don’t see how you can possibly mean that you 
want to marry me!” said Cis slowly abandoning 


406 


THE CABLE 


Miss Braithwaite’s cause. “Don’t you think you 
mean someone else?” 

“I distinctly think that I mean no one else!” 
cried Anselm. “Do I strike you as positively feeble¬ 
minded? There’s no difficulty in telling you from 
all others. I can tell you apart literally, quite apart 
from all others created! And I’m not grave and 
settled down; I’m only thirty-eight, darling! Are 
you thinking of me as solemn, serious, almost 
elderly? No, no; I’m not! I’m your lover, Cis, and 
he loves you more than he can tell you. Will you 
come here, Cis, desire of my heart? Will you help 
me in the beautiful schemes we’ve discussed? Take 
my mother’s place, but fill only your own place, my 
wife’s place, my helpmeet’s place—and more; a 
thousand times more!” 

“You are meant to be a real helpmeet to a fine 
man.” Cis heard Father Morley’s voice again say¬ 
ing these words to her. He had known when he 
said it that Anselm meant to ask her to marry him; 
he wanted her to marry Anselm, though Anselm 
was a great man, while she was only red-haired 
Cicely Adair! 

It came upon her with an irresistible rush of con¬ 
viction that she did love Anselm, that she had 
been loving him and had not known it. For how 
could she ever have thought of his loving her? 
Yet this was why all other things, Nan, her old 
home, Rodney Moore seemed insufficient to her; 
this was why she had been restless, longing, unsat¬ 
isfied. What a life it was that opened out before 



THE CABLE 


407 


her in this house, the wife of this man, his help¬ 
meet, his beloved! 

Distrust of herself, the magnitude of the joy 
stretching out before her drove her into the true 
woman’s dalliance with yielding to this unforeseen 
bliss. 

She must hold off for a little while the glorious 
submergence of herself out of which she knew 
would arise the truer, greater self which would 
forevermore be Cicely. 

“Take me home,” Cis said rising. “I cannot an¬ 
swer yet.” 

Obediently Anselm followed her toward the 
door, but he looked bitterly disappointed. Cis 
halted, wavering, on the threshold, as her heart 
smote her for this look. This was Anselm’s mother’s 
room, the sanctuary of his childhood, the shrine of 
a tender love. It would be sweet to make him happy 
here; he had brought her hither for this. 

She was a generous Cicely, albeit a frightened 
one. She turned fully and faced Anselm. 

“I think I do. Love you, I mean. I’ll come,” 
she said. 

He caught her, reverently, gratefully, yet most 
lovingly in his arms and kissed her flaming hair, 
her white brow, her closed eyes, and at last, with 
the bridegroom’s kiss, he kissed her sweet lips. 

The great cable which had held her fast, had also 
drawn Cis safe into port. 

THE END 


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VALUES,EVERLASTING, THE. 

Garesche, S.J. net , $1.25. 
VENERATION OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN. Rohner- Brennan. net, 
$0.85. 

VIGIL HOUR, THE. Ryan, S.J. Paper, 

*$O.I2. 


VISITS TO JESUS IN THE TABER¬ 
NACLE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.75. 

VISITS TO THE MOST HOLY SACRA¬ 
MENT. Liguori. net , $0.90. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, *$0.08. 
WAY OF THE CROSS. Illustrated. 
Method of St. Alphonsus Liguori. 
*80.25. 


4 


WAY OF THE CROSS, THE. Very 
large-type edition. Method of St. 
Alphonsus Liguori. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Eucharistic 
method. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. By a Jesuit 
Father. *$0.25. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Method of St. 

Francis of Assisi. *$0.25. 

WITH GOD. Prayer-Book by Father La- 
sance. Im. leather, limp, red edges $1.75. 
YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE, THE. Prayer- 


Book by Father Lasance. Seal grain 
Cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.25; 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00. 

YOUR INTERESTS ETERNAL. Gar- 
esche. S.J. net, $1.25. 

YOUR NEIGHBOR AND YOU. Gar- 
esch£. S.J. net, $1.25. 

YOUR OWN HEART. Garesche, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

YOUR, SOUL’S SALVATION. Gar¬ 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 


III. THEOLOGY, LITURGY, HOLY SCRIPTURE, PHILOSOPHY, 

SCIENCE. CANON LAW 


ALTAR PRAYERS. Edition A: Eng¬ 
lish and Latin, net, $1.75. Edition B: 
German-English-Latin, net, $2.00. 
ANNOUNCEMENT BOOK. i 2 mo. 
net, $3.00. 

BAPTISMAL RITUAL, nmo. net, $1.50. 
BENEDICENDA. Schulte, net, $2.75. 
BURIAL RITUAL. Cloth, net, $2.50; 

sheepskin, net, $3.75. 

CASES OF CONSCIENCE. Slater, 
S.J. 2 vols. net, $6.00. 

CHRIST’S TEACHING CONCERNING 
DIVORCE. Gigot. net, ^$2.75. 
CLERGYMAN’S HANDBOOK OF LAW. 

Scanlon, net, $2.25. 

COMBINATION RECORD FOR SMALL 
PARISHES, net, $8.00. 
COMMENTARY ON THE PSALMS. 
Berry, net, $3.50. 

COMPENDIUM SACR.E LITURGI/E. 

Wapelhorst, O.F.M. net, W3.00. 
ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. 

Thein. 4to, half mor. net, $6.50. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Gigot. net, ^$4.00. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Abridged edition. Gigot. net, 

H$2.75. 

HOLY BIBLE, THE. Large type, handy 
size. Cloth, $1.50. 

HYMNS OF THE BREVIARY AND 
MISSAL, THE. Britt, O.S.B. net, 
$6.00. 

JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST- 
Millet, S.J.-Byrne. net, $3.25. 
LIBER STATUS ANIMARUM, Or 
Parish Census Book. Large edition, size 
14X10 inches. 100 Families. 200 pages, 
half leather, net, $7.00. 200 Families. 

400 pp. half leather, net, $8.00; Pocket 
Edition, net, $0.50. 

MANUAL OF HOMILETICS AND 
CATECHETICS. Schuech-Lueber- 
mann. net, $2.25. 

MANUAL OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 

Slater. S.J. 2 vols. net, $8.00. 
MARRIAGE LEGISLATION IN THE 
NEW CODE. Ayrinhac, S.S. net, 
$2.50. 


MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt edges, 
net, $2.50; sheepskin, gilt edges, net, $3.75. 

MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
HIGHER CRITICISM. Gigot. Paper. 
net, IH0.15. 

MISSALE ROMANUM. Benziger 
Brothers’ Authorized Vatican Edition. 
Black or red Amer. morocco, gold edges, 
net, $15.00; red Amer. morocco, gold 
stamping and edges, net, $17.50; red, 
finest quality morocco, red under gold 
edges, net, $22.00. 

MORAL PRINCIPLES AND MED¬ 
ICAL PRACTICE. Coppens, S.J., 
Spalding, S.J. net, $2.50. 

OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
HISTORY. Gigot. net, f$2.75. 

PASTORAL THEOLOGY- Stang. net, 
f$2.25. 

PENAL LEGISLATION IN THE NEW 
CODE OF CANON LAW. Ayrinhac, 
S.S. net, $3.00. 

PEW COLLECTION AND RECEIPT 
BOOK. Indexed. 11X8 inches, net, 
$ 3 - 00 . 

PHILOSOPHIA MORALI, DE. Russo, 
S.J. Half leather, net . $2.75. 

PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 
McHugh. O.P. net, $0.60. 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Sy- 
nodi Diocesanae ac Provincialis Cele- 
brandae. net, $1.00. 

QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 
Slater, S.J. net, $3.00. 

RECORD OF BAPTISMS. 200 pages, 
700 entries, net, $7.00; 400 pages, 1400 
entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 2100 
entries, net, $12.00. 

RECORD OF CONFIRMATIONS. 
net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF FIRST COMMUNIONS. 
net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF INTERMENTS. net, 
$6.00. 

RECORD OF MARRIAGES. 200 
pages, 700 entries, net, $7.00.; 400 pages, 
1400 entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 

2100 entries, net, $12.00. 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM. Cloth, 
net, $1.25; seal, net, $2.00. 

SHORT HISTORY OF MORAL THE¬ 
OLOGY, Slater, S.J. net, $0.75. 


5 


SPECIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. 
Gigot. Part I. net , ^$2.75. Part II. 
net , H$ 3 . 25 . 

SPIRAGO’S METHOD OF CHRISTIAN 
DOCTRINE. Messmer. net , $2.50. 


TEXTUAL CONCORDANCE OF THE 
HOLY SCRIPTURES. Williams. 
net , $5.75. 

WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 
FOR SCIENCE. Brennan. net , 
$1.50- 


IV. SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. Bono- 
melli, D.D. -Byrne. 4 vols., net , $9.00. 
EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. De- 
mouy. 2 vols., net . $4x0. 

HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF 
SAINTS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 2 vols., 
net , $4.50. 

HOMILIES ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 4 vols. 
net , $9.00. 

MASTER’S WORD, THE, IN THE 
EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Flynn. 

2 vols., net , $4.00. 

POPULAR SERMONS ON THE CAT¬ 
ECHISM. Bamberg-Thurston, S.J. 

3 vols., net , $8.50. 

SERMONS. Canon Sheehan, net , $3.00. 
SERMONS FOR CHILDREN’S MASSES. 

Frassinetti-Lings. net , $2.50. 
SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. Pott- 
geisser, S.J. 2 vols., net , $5.00. 


SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED LADY. 
Flynn, net , $2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED SAC¬ 
RAMENT. Scheurer-Lasance. net , 
$2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE CHIEF CHRIS¬ 
TIAN VIRTUES. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE DUTIES OF 
CHRISTIANS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
THINGS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY 
SINS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE AND 
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE MASS, THE SAC¬ 
RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
MENTALS. Flynn, net , $2.75. 


V. HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, HAGIOLOGY, TRAVEL 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA¬ 
TIUS LOYOLA. O’Connor, S.J. net , 
$i- 75 * 

CAMILLUS DE LELLIS. By a Sister 
of Mercy, net , $1.75. 

CHILD’S LIFE OF ST. JOAN OF 
ARC. Mannix. net , $1.50. 

GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF 
THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL SYS¬ 
TEM IN THE UNITED STATES. 
Burns, C.S.C. net , $2.50. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Brueck. 2 vols., net , 
$ 5 - 50 - 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net , 
$ 3 - 50 - 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net , 

H$o.7S. 

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT 
REFORMATION. Cobbett-Gas- 
quet. net , $0.83. 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. O’Brien. 
net , $2.00. 

HOLINESS OF THE CHURCH IN THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. Kempf, 
S.J. net , $2.75. 

LIFE OF ST. MARGARET MARY 
ALACOQUE Illustrated. Bougaud. 
net $2.75. 


LIFE OF CHRIST. Businger-Brennan, 
Illustrated. Half morocco, gilt edges, 
net , $15.00. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Illustrated. Bus- 
inger-Mullett. net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Cochem. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 
Genelli, S.J. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE 
GRAS, net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF POPE PIUS X. Illustrated. 
net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 
Rohner. net , $0.85. 

LITTLE LIVES OF THE SAINTS FOR 
CHILDREN. Berthold. net , $0.75. 

LITTLE PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE 
SAINTS. With 400 illustrations, net , 
$2.00. 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Butler 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net , $0.85. 

LOURDES. Clarke, S.J. net , $0.85. 

MARY THE QUEEN. By a Religious. 
net , $0.60. 

MIDDLE AGES, THE. Shahan. n , $3.00. 

MILL TOWN PASTOR, A. Conroy, 
S.J. net , $1.75. 

NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
HEARTS. Sadlier. net , $0.85. 

OUR OWN ST. RITA. Corcoran, 
O.S.A. net , $1.50. 


6 


PATRON SAINTS FOR CATHOLIC 
YOUTH. Mannix. Each life separately 
in attractive colored paper cover with 
illustration on front cover. Each, io 
cents postpaid; per 25 copies, assorted, 
net, $1.75; per 100 copies, assorted, 
net, $6.75. Sold only in packages con¬ 
taining 5 copies of one title. 

For Boys: St. Joseph; St. Aloysius; St. 

Anthony; St. Bernard; St. Martin; 

St. Michael; Sfc. Francis Xavier; St. 

Patrick; St. Charles; St. Philip. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net , $1.00. 

For Girls: St. Ann; St. Agnes; St. 

Teresa; St. Rose of Lima; St. Cecilia; 

St. Helena; St. Bridget; St. Catherine; 

St. Elizabeth; St. Margaret. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net , $1.00. 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
With nearly 4.00 illustrations and over 
600 pages, net , $5.00. 

POPULAR LIFE OF ST. TERESA. 
L’abbe Joseph, net , $1.25. 

PRINCIPLES ORIGIN AND ESTAB¬ 
LISHMENT OF THE CATHOLIC 
SCHOOL SYSTEM IN THE UNITED 
STATES. Burns, C.S.C. net , $2.50. 

RAMBLES IN CATHOLIC LANDS. 
Barrett, O.S.B. Illustrated, net , S3.50. 


ROMA. Pagan Subterranean and Mod¬ 
ern Rome in Word and Picture. By 
Rev. Albert Kuhn, O.S.B., D.D. 
Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 617 
pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
inserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors, 
X12 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
side, net , $15,00. 

ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 
Martin, S.J. net , $2.50. 

ST. ANTHONY. Ward, net , $0.85. 

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. Dubois, 
S.M. net , $0.85. 

ST. JOAN OF ARC. Lynch, S.J. Illus¬ 
trated. net , $2.75. 

ST. JOHN BERCHMANS. Dele- 
haye, S.J. -Semple, S.J. net , $1.50. 

SAINTS AND PLACES. By J ohn 
Ayscough. Illustrated, net , $3.00. 

SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
Donnelly, net , $0.90. 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 
Told for Children. Lings, net , $0.60. 

STORY OF THE ACTS OF THE APOS¬ 


TLES. Lynch, S.J. Illustrated, liet , 
$2.75. 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. Sadlier. 
net , $0.85. 

WONDER STORY, THE. Taggart. 
Illustrated. Board covers, net , $0.25; 
per 100, $22.50. Also an edition in 
French and Polish at same price. 


VI. JUVENILES 


FATHER FINN’S BOOKS. 

Each, net , $1.00. 

ON THE RUN. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. 

FACING DANGER. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. A Sequel to 
“ Lucky Bob.” 

LUCKY BOB. 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A 
BOY OF HIM. 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR. MAKING A 
START 

CLAUDE' LTGHTFOOT; OR, HOW 
THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. 

HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT 
OUT. 

ETHELRED PRESTON; OR, THE 
ADVENTURES OF A NEWCOMER. 

THE BEST FOOT FORWARD; AND 
OTHER STORIES. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY 
GRACE.” 

CUPID OF CAMPION. 

THAJ FOOTBALL GAME, AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 

THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR¬ 
ANCE. 

MOSTLY BOYS. SHORT STORIES. 

FATHER SPALDING’S BOOKS. 

Each, net , $1.25. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 


THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
FORK 

THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 
THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 
THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 
THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
ROSE 

THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. 

Ferry, net , $0.60. 

ALTHEA. Nirdlinger. net , $0.85. 

AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Copus, 
S.J. net , $1.25. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Mannix. net , 
$0.60. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

Spalding, S.J. net , $1.25. 

BELL FOUNDRY. Schaching, net , $0.60. 
BERKLEYS. THE. Wight, net , $0.60. 
BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn, 
S.J. net , $1.00. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. net , 
$0.85. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. net , $0.60. 
BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. Tag¬ 
gart. net , $0.60. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. Finn, S.J. 
net , $1.00. 

BOB O’LINK. Waggaman. net , $0.60. 
BROWNIE AND I. Aumerle. net , $0.85. 
BUNT AND BILL. Mulholland. net , 
$0.60. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY GRACE.” 

Finn, S.J. net , $1.00. 

BY BRANSCOME RIVER. Taggart. 
net , $0.60. 


7 


CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. Spalding, 
S.J. net, $1.25. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.25. 

CHILDREN OF CUPA. Mannix. net, 
$0.60. 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. 

Delamare. net, $0.85. 

CLARE LORAINE. “Lee.” net, $ 0.85. 
CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

COBRA ISLAND. Boyton, S.J. net, 
$1.1 5 - 

CUPA REVISITED. Mannlx. net, $0.60. 
CUPID OF CAMPION. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. n, $0.85. 
DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. Mulholland. 
net, $0.60. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley, net, 
$0.60. 

FACING DANGER. Finn, S.J. net, 

$I.OG. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

FINDING OF TONY. Waggaman. net, 
$1.25. 

FIVE BIRDS IN A NEST. Delamare. 
net, $0.85. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By a Reli¬ 
gious. net, $0.85. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan, net, 
$1.25. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. Hinkson. 
net, $0.60. 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. Smith. 
net, $0.60. , 

FREDDY CARR’S ADVENTURES. 

Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire, net, 
$0.85. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
HARRY RUSSELL. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

HEIR OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 
net, $0.60. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. 

Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR, Finn. S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. Bonesteel. 
net, $0.60. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. 
Egan, net, $0.85. 

in quest of Adventure, man- 

Nix. net, $0.60. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. 
Barton, net, $0,85. 


JACK. By a Religious, H.C.J. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK-O’LANTERN. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 
net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First 
Series. net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second 
Series, net, $0.85. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 
net, $0.85. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE 
HOLY CHILD JESUS, Lutz, net, 
$0.85. 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. 

Delamare. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. 

Roberts, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. Rye- 
man. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.85. 

LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR¬ 
LET. Taggart, net, $1.25. 

LUCKY BOB. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. Bru- 
nowe. net, $0.60. 

MAD KNIGHT, THE. Schaching. net, 

$.0.60. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE. Copus, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

MAN FROM NOWHERE. Sadlier. 
net, $0.85. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sad¬ 
lier. net, $0.60. 

MILLY AVELING. Smith, net, $0.85. 
MIRALDA. Johnson, net, $0.60. 
MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

By a Religious, net , $0. 85. 

MOSTLY BOYS, Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 
Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. Barton. 
net, $0.85. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
NED RIEDER. Wehs. net, $0.85. 

NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S. 

Brunowe. net, $0.83. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. 
Smith, net, $0.60. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 

Mannix. net, $0.85. 

ON THE RUN. Finn, S. J. net, $1.00. 
PANCHO AND PANCHITA. Mannix. 
net, $0.60. 

PAULINE ARCHER Sadlier. net, $0.60. 
PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. net , 

$0.60. 

PETRONILLA. Donnelly, net, $0.85. 
PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey, net 
$1.25. 


8 


PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. Carnot. 
net, $0.60. 

PLAYWATER PLOT, THE. Wagga¬ 
man. net, $1.25. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts, net, 
$0.85. 

POVERINA. Buckenham. net, $1.00. 

QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Wagga- 
man. net, $1.25. 

QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. Clem- 
entia. net, $1.50. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.25. 

RECRUIT TOMMY COLLINS. Bone- 
steel. net, $0.60. 

ROMANCE OF THE SILVER SHOON. 
Bearne, S.J. net, $1.25. 

ST. CUTFIBERT’S. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

SEA-GULL’S ROCK. Sandeau. net, 
$0.60. 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 
Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.60. 

SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. net, 
$ 1. 25 - 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

SHIPMATES. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 
Spalding, S.J. net, $1.25. 

STRONG ARM OF AVALON. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, $1.25. 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.25. 


SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. Sadlier. 

net, $0.60. 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES, de Capella. net, 
$0.85. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. net, $0.85. 
TAMING OF POLLY. Dorsey, net, 
$1.25. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY 
ONE. Taggart, net, $0.60. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 
net, $0.85. 

TOM LOSELY; BOY. Copus, S.J. net, 
$1.25. 

TOM PLAYFAIR. Finn. S.J. net, $1.00. 
TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh, net, $0.60. 
TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, $1.25. 

TREASURE OF NUGGET MOUN¬ 
TAIN. Taggart, net, $0.85. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack, net, 
$0.60. 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clemen- 
tia. net, $1.50. 

UPS AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 

Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

VIOLIN MAKER. Smith, net, $0.60. 
WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel, 
net, $0.60. 


VII. NOVELS 

ISABEL C. CLARKE’S GREAT BY THE BLUE RIVER. Clarke. 


NOVELS. Each, net, $2.00. 
AVERAGE CABINS. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON. 
THE POTTER’S HOUSE. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. 

URSULA FINCH. 

THE ELSTONES. 

EUNICE. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
CHILDREN OF EVE. 

THE DEEP HEART. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 

FINE CLAY. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. 

THE REST HOUSE. 

ONLY ANNE. 

THE SECRET CITADEL. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER. 

ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L’Er- 
mitk. 8 vo. net, $ 2 . 00 . 

AVERAGE CABINS. Clarke, net,$2. 00. 
BACK TO THE WORLD. Champol. 
net, $2.00. 

BARRIER, THE. Bazin, net, $1.65. 
BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. 

Eart.s, S.T. net, $1.50. 

BLACK BROTHERHOOD, THE. Gar- 
rold, S.J. net, S2.00. 

BOND AND FREE. Connor, net, &0.85. 
BUNNY’S HOUSE. Walker, net, $2.00. 


net, $2.00. 

CARROLL DARE. Waggaman. net, 
$0.85. 

CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. 

Brackel. net, So.8 1 ;. 

CHILDREN OF EVE. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. 

Berth olds, net, $0.85. 

CORINNE’S VOW. Waggaman. net, 
$0.85. 

DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. Hinkson. 
net, $2.00. 

DEEP HEART, THE. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

DENYS THE DREAMER. Hinkson. 
net, $2.00. 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. Keon. net, 

ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

ELSTONES, THE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
EUNICE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FABIOLA. Wiseman, net, $0.85. 
FABIOLA’S SISTERS. Clarke, n, $0.85. 
FATAL BEACON, THE. Brackel. 
net, $0.85. 

FAUSTULA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
FINE CLAY. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FLAME OF THE FOREST. Bishop. 
net, $2.00, 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. Lingen. 
net, $0.85. 

GRAPES OF THORNS. Waggaman. 
net, $0.85. 

HEART OF A MAN. Maher. «ei,$2.oo. 
HEARTS OF GOLD. Edhor. net, $0.85. 
HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. Hahn- 
Hahn, net, $0.85. 

HER BLIND FOLLY. Holt, net, $0.85. 
HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. Hink- 
son. net, $2.00. 

HER FATHER’S SHARE. Power, net, 
$0.85. 

HER JOURNEY’S END. Cooke, net, 

50.85. 

IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
RUE CHAUSSE D’ANTIN. de Nav- 
ery. net, $0.85. 

IN GOD’S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 

50.85. 

IN SPITE OF ALL. Staniforth, net, 
$0.85. 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. Tag¬ 
gart. net, $0.85. 

IVY HEDGE, THE. Egan, net, $2.00. 
KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 

Harrison, net, $0.85. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
Hart, net, $o.8i;. 

LIGHT ON THE LAGOON, THE. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

“LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT.” Gray. 
net, $2.00. 

LITTLE CARDINAL. Parr, net, $1.65. 
LOVE OF BROTHERS. Hinkson. net, 
$2.00. 

MARCELLA GRACE. Mulholland. 
net, $0.85. 

MARIE OF THE HOUSE D’ANTERS. 

Earls, S.J. net, $2.00. 

MARIQUITA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. Earls, S.J. 
net, $0.85. 

MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L’Ermite. 
net, $2.00. 

MIRROR OF SHALOTT. Benson, net, 
$2.00. 

MISS ERIN. Francis, net, $0.85. 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. Lecky. m,$i.6s. 
MONK’S PARDON, THE. de Navery. 
net, $0.85. 

MY LADY BEATRICE. Cooke, net, 
$0.85. 

NOT A JUDGMENT. Keon. net, $1.65. 
ONLY ANNE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
OTHER MISS LISLE. Martin, n, $0.85. 
OUT OF BONDAGE. Holt, net, $0.85. 
OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE. de La- 
mothe. net, $0.85. 

PASSING SHADOWS. Yorke. net, 
$1.65. 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. Lecky. 
net, $1.65. 

POTTER’S HOUSE, THE. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
OTHER STORIES. Bugg. net, $1.50. 
PROPHET’S WIFE. Browne. ne/,$i. 25 . 


RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. Sadlier. 
net, $0.85. 

REST HOUSE, THE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
ROSE OF THE WORLD. Martin, net, 
$0.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0 85. 
ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0.85. 
ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, $0.85. 
ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG¬ 
LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, 
$0.85. 

RUBY CROSS, THE. Wallace.' net, 

$0.85. 

RULER OF THE KINGDOM. Keon. 
net, $1.65. 

SECRET CITADEL, THE. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE. 
Cooke, net, $0.85. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. Lans- 
downe. net, $0.85. 

SHIELD OF SILENCE. Henry-Ruf- 
fin. net, $2.00. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor, net, $0.85. 
SON OF SIRO, THE. Copus, S.J. net, 
$2.00. 

STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 
net, $1.65. 

STUORE. Earls, S.J. net, $1.50. 
TEMPEST OF THE HEART. Gray. 

net, $0.85. 

TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, net, $0.85. 
THAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross, net, 
$0.85. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner, net, $0.85. 
THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkie- 
wicz. net, $2.00. 

TIDEWAY, THE. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. Clarke, net, 
$2.00. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
Sadlier. net, $1.65. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 

net, $0.85. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 
net, $0.85. 

UNDER THE CEDARS AND THE 
STARS. Canon Sheehan, net, $2.00. 
UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE, THE. 

Taggart, net, $1.25. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett, 
O.S.B. net, $1.65. 

URSULA FINCH. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
THE. Egan, net, $1.65. 

WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. Reid, net, 
$1.65. 

WAR MOTHERS. Poems. Garesche, 
S.J. net, $0.60. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 

Harrison, net, $0.85. 

WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
LOUGH, THE. Earls, S.J. net, $2.00. 
WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon 
net, $1.65. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. Clarke. 

net, $2.00. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Reid, net, 
$1.65. 


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